


Quest 08: Mark of Zemouregal

by FishiesGoneFiction



Series: Of Gods and Men [8]
Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22019320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishiesGoneFiction/pseuds/FishiesGoneFiction
Summary: Because of Jahaan’s betrayal of Zamorak during their heist of the Stone of Jas, Zemouregal takes the matter of revenge into his own hands. When Jahaan looks to get even, he enlists the help of his Mahjarrat allies to take the fight to Zemouregal…
Series: Of Gods and Men [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1340662
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Everlasting Fire

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my full series 'Of Gods and Men', and on my page can be read in full (or as far as I've posted). I'm also posting it in smaller chunks as each 'quest' can sort of be standalone, but read as part of a wider story as well.

Jahaan trudged for a while before he reached civilisation again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to risk Ardougne, not just because of what happened last time, but a few Zamorakian Mahjarrat had their strongholds nearby, and considering his role in the heist, he figured he wasn’t the most popular man alive right now. He also had to avoid the Legends’ Guild because, well, reasons. So, accepting that the people he’d probably pissed off the least were the Guthixians, Jahaan made for Seers’ Village, deciding to stay there for the foreseeable future. Acquiring some papyrus and a quill pen, the first thing Jahaan did after placing his order at the town’s largest tavern was to write to Ozan, telling him in brief the events that had unfolded, and asked if he was near enough to Seers’ Village to stop by for the tale in full, along with a hearty meal. Once Postie Pete came around the next morning, Jahaan made polite conversation with the decapitated skull pulling along a parcel sack on wheels. Postie Pete had seen and done it all, and if you could catch him for long enough, he was a delight to chat to.

However, he never explained the story behind just how he became Gielinor’s resident postman with nothing more than a skull and cart to his name. But hey, he got the job done. In fact, the very next morning Jahaan received a reply from Ozan, saying he was just leaving Catherby and would stop by in a few days on his way to the Fremennik Province.

During the days in between, Jahaan bumbled about the town, looking in all the quaint little shops and taking a somewhat tourist-y trip up to Camelot Castle, feeling rather embarrassed with himself after gleefully grinning like an idiot when he saw Sir Bedivere walking across the courtyard.

When Ozan arrived, Jahaan regailed him with tales of the heist of the Stone of Jas, enrapturing him and the entirety of the local tavern at the same time. Taking a leaf out of Ozan’s book, he used his storytelling ability to keep their plates and cups full to the brim for days on end.

He didn’t notice the one man in the back, listening on with concerned surprise, before making a subtle exit.

The next day, he was still so overjoyed with retelling his story to the new patrons, and even the old ones who came back to hear wild stories of Mahjarrat and Zamorakian fortresses, that he didn’t even notice the headlines in the Seers Weekly publication that talked of an assassination in Falador park, details to come after the investigation is completed, with no suspects at present.

No, Jahaan was quite enjoying his time in Seers’ Village with his best friend at his side.

But all good things…

Jahaan had slept soundly in that rather comfy bed every night he’d been there. This night, however, he was oddly awoken by a weird sensation - that of moisture around his hand. Groggily, he opened his eyes, ready to figure out how his beer had gotten onto the pillow.

Staring back at him were eyes, bloodshot and lifeless, inside a head with skin as white as the sheets had once been. The face was old and shrivelled, wrinkled before all the life had been sucked from it. Jahaan shot upwards, scrambling backwards until his hand landed upon something solid, yet squishy. Warm, yet deathly cold.

Lit up by the pale light of the moon, his eyes landed upon them.

Two decapitated heads.

He recognised them both, despite the warped contortions death had brought to their features. He wished he didn’t recognise them, but oh gods he did…

Sir Tiffy Cashien and Thaerisk Cephire.

Panting heavily, desperately fighting back the urge to vomit, Jahaan’s shaky hand made for the dagger that was usually on his bedside table, but it was gone.

“Looking for this?” a voice rose from the shadows, full of teeth and menace, holding a runite dagger. Jahaan was too terrified to move, completely frozen in place between the severed skulls around him.

The figure moved into the light from the moon, an incredibly tall and bulky figure with ashen skin, covered in a combination of armour and robes.

“Zemouregal,” Jahaan had wanted to sound a lot more fearsome than he did, but it came out more like a stutter.

“In person,” he snarled, twirling the small blade around his fingers.

Jahaan’s eyes darted to where his armour and swords were piled up in the corner, closer to him than Zemouregal was, but that little look betrayed him, and when he went to move, he found himself ensnared in pulsing black and purple binds. Hissing in the pain they inflicted, tightening his arms to his sides, Jahaan was rendered immobile by the simple spell.

“Do you like the gifts I brought you?” Zemouregal sauntered closer to the edge of the bed, malice layered inside his smugness. “I put a lot of thought into them.”

Jahaan’s eyes burned through Zemouregal like fire.

Fire, like…

_ What a second, what’s that smell?  _

Jahaan’s nose started to twinge at the foreign, invading odour seeping into the room, pungent and clogging. Once it finally reached his throat, it scraped downwards, drying his throat out instantly.

Panicked eyes darted back at Zemouregal; he struggled in his binds.

Laughing maliciously, Zemouregal snapped Jahaan back to unwavering attention by throwing the knife into the headboard beside him, splitting the wood on impact, only an inch from his ear.

“I’d say it’s not worth fighting, but by all means, continue. It’s fun to watch you squirm,” Zemouregal’s dry lips cracked into a sneer. “After all, I won’t get to enjoy your suffering for that much longer. It’ll be sweet while it lasts.”

“What the fuck is your trauma?!” Jahaan bellowed, sweating already from the intense heat. To himself, he racked his brain, wondering,  _ How the hell had this not woken me up before? _

“You really have to ask?” Zemouregal spat in return. “Did you really think betraying Zamorak would go unpunished?”

“Please, if this was Zamorak’s doing, he’d want to kill me himself! This is all YOU, isn’t it?”

His grin widening, Zemouregal replied, “You’re a sharp one. Your insolence has rather started to grate on me. I’ll be doing Zamorak a favour by ridding the world of you.”

Struggling once more, Jahaan knew there was no escaping this hold, not while Zemouregal was in the vicinity. Desperate, Jahaan tried a new approach. “So what, you’re not even going to finish me yourself? Too scared I’ll beat you -  _ again _ ?”

From the flash in Zemouregal’s eyes, it looked as if Jahaan had succeeded in striking a nerve.  _ If I just get him to release me, to fight me, I might stand a chance _

However, once Zemouregal’s malevolent smile returned, Jahaan knew his approach had failed. “Nice try, but a quick death just isn’t as much fun. So as every fibre of your skin is being melted away, slowly and agonisingly, know this - this is of your own doing, World Guardian. The deaths of the knight and the druid are on you. The death of your close friend, the dark skinned one you entered with, is on you. He’s still here, by the way. My spy managed to slip something even stronger onto his beverage, double the dose of yours. It would have knocked him out for the night, but he’ll wake up once the flames reach him. Now you’ll be able to hear his screams as he  _ burns _ .”

The crackling of the flames was now much louder, thumping in time to Jahaan’s heartbeat. Hearing the impending inferno beating against the door, Zemouregal looked satisfied. “I guess this is goodbye, World Guardian.”

With that, he was gone.

Jahaan assumed the restraints would vanish alongside Zemouregal, but their hold remained, cutting into his sweating flesh like wires. Writhing and twisting with all his strength, Jahaan tried to wriggle free, to break the binds, to escape… but it wasn’t to be.

The heat was unbearable; the fire had yet to break through the door, though it was only a matter of time.

He had no runes to teleport out of the binds, and no weapon that would cut through them.

Jahaan didn’t want to resign himself to the fact that this was going to be his end, that he was going to die screaming, helpless, and by Zemouregal’s hand.

_ By Guthix, Tumeken, Saradomin, Zamorak, Seren, Zaros - SOMEONE help me! _ Jahaan internally pleaded, knowing that if any time was the right time to start praying, it was now. Then, like a lightning bolt, it struck him - prayers! Not in the conventional praying to a deity sense, but  _ curses _ . Zarosian curses, to be specific. Jahaan’s bedtime reading since the Mahjarrat Ritual had included Infernal language books, Senntisten history tomes, and texts about the Zarosian religion. The latter talked about curses, a Zarosian practice that were a hybrid of conventional spells and combative prayers, things that warpriests were mainly skilled in. They didn’t require runes, and they could be performed by anyone against an enemy of Zaros.

Considering Zemouregal was Zamorakian, Jahaan figured he stood a chance.

Trying to reduce his panicking, Jahaan worked to calm his breathing and clear his mind, focusing on remembering how to chant went.

_ “A gentes cervarum's non habere, Zaros liberabo te fidelis…”  _ Jahaan mumbled to himself, growing in fervor as his urgency rose,  _ “A gentes cervarum's non habere, Zaros liberabo te fidelis!” _

_ Come on Zaros, I know I’m not a Zarosian but you fucking owe me one! _ He internally added, sweat dripping from his brow as he continued aloud,  _ “A gentes cervarum's non habere, Zaros liberabo te fidelis! A gentes cervarum's non habere, Zaros liberabo te fidelis! A GENTES CERVARUM'S NON HABERE, ZAROS LIBERABO TE FIDELIS!” _

Suddenly, miraculously, the binds shattered. Panting in unbelievably relief, Jahaan wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes, shaking violently. Gasping in a lungful of thick, smoky air, he scrambled to his feet, unfortunately unable to forget that he was covered in the blood of his friends. Desperately, he tried to fight past it, snatching the dagger out of the headboard and scooping up his bag on the way to the door. The handle, conductive to heat, was beyond scalding to the touch. Fortunately, the door was weak from the battering of flames, and Jahaan broke through by throwing his shoulder against the less-than-sturdy oak. Pulling his shirt over his nose and mouth, Jahaan managed to at least somewhat protect himself from the escaping cloud.

Once he opened his eyes and tried to readjust to the imparied vision, he saw the extent of Zemouregal’s damage.

It looked as if the world was on fire.

Jahaan watched the deep flames of the enraged inferno through blurry eyes.

_ What of the other residents?  _ he allowed himself a fleeting thought, one that sunk his soul. He hoped - no,  _ prayed  _ \- that they had all escaped.  _ Perhaps they had gotten more of a warning? Perhaps they could escape through their windows? _

Shaking his head clear, Jahaan tried to focus, not wanting to dwell on the horror for too long as he made his way to Ozan’s room at the end of the hall. Jahaan tried to call out his name, but the ensuing inhalation of smoke caused him to collapse to his knees, a coughing and spluttering mess.

Like his own door, this one was weak too, and he managed to kick his way through.

Inside, every wall was crawling with a furious red heat, scalding with flames. Thick smoke engulfed every ounce of sweet air and replaced it with a heavy, suffocating blanket of pungent smog.

And in the centre of it all, Ozan.

He looked so helpless, laid out on the bed. So peaceful, the only still thing inside this inferno.

_ Deathly still, _ Jahaan’s mind stabbed at him,  _ Why hasn’t he woken up? Has the smoke...  _

He refused to let the thought overcome him, refused to let it be true. Stepping over the smouldering remains of the bookcase, Jahaan tried to fight past the violent heat and towards his friend. He could barely see anything past the flickers of orange among a sea of grey and black, but once he’d set his eyes on the murky outline of Ozan, he refused to let them waver.

Tingling heat pricked at his bare skin like daggers, relentlessly. The temperature was unbearable, but he pushed forward, driven by adrenaline alone, careful to keep to the centre of the floor and away from the scorching orange embers on the walls.

The bed was quickly growing in flames, and they’d started crawling across Ozan’s clothes, charring the skin underneath.

A loud crash came from behind them; darting around, Jahaan looked on in horror as the southern wall - where the door was - had started to cave in, and the floor was looking like it was the next in line to go.

That only left the window, but it was a straight drop down three stories onto concrete pavement. While Jahaan might, MIGHT survive the fall, in his condition, Ozan would not.

Seeds of helplessness started to sow themselves, nurtured by desperation.

_ Why don’t I carry runes? _ Jahaan internally whimpered, regretting his near-hatred of magic for all these years.  _ If I could just teleport out, I could- _

Suddenly, it hit him. Quickly, he removed his backpack and scrambled through it until he pulled out the tiny invitation box he’d acquired all that time ago. Not wasting another second, Jahaan firmly grabbed onto Ozan’s arm and, with his free hand, pried open the lid of the box, feeling them both get whisked away...

Jahaan and Ozan collapsed onto the relievingly cold marble of the Empyrean Citadel chamber, the former coughing up a lung in the process. Wiping the soot from around his eyes, he hurried to toss his backpack aside and check on Ozan, who still hadn’t regained consciousness.

Putting his ear close to his mouth, he tried to listen for any signs of life, but there weren’t any. Shaking him didn’t help, nor did shouting his name. Luckily, Jahaan remembered the resuscitation training he’d received in the Imperial Guard, and set to work on chest compressions, counting back from thirty. This was followed swiftly by rescue breaths, two short and sharp exhalations into Ozan’s mouth. He repeated this process a handful more times until finally, mercifully, Ozan spluttered to life with a series of coughs.

Letting out the most tensed, shakiest breath he’d ever held, Jahaan felt tears of relief trickle down his face.

_ Thanks for letting him stay, Icthlarin, _ Jahaan whispered internally to himself, getting out his waterskin and knife from his backpack. Gently, he helped Ozan take small sips to clear the dust from his throat. The man tried to speak, but it only resulted in a dozen more coughs.

“Take this and don’t talk,” Jahaan instructed. Ozan was in no position to argue. 

While Ozan dozily held onto the waterskin, Jahaan carefully cut the burned and charred clothing from around Ozan’s more severe burns, seeing as most of it had already fused to the skin and couldn’t be treated just yet. When he heard the waterskin drop, Jahaan saw that Ozan was shaking, severely. Fighting back the poisonous worry, he helped lay Ozan down flat on the cool citadel floor, using his backpack to try and elevate his feet somewhat. With the discarded, yet still almost full waterskin, Jahaan tried to rinse clean some of Ozan’s burns, causing the man to jolt and shudder with the contact. Wincing through it, Jahaan continued until the waterskin was nearly empty, saving just enough in case Ozan needed a drink later. Feeling the aching dryness in the back of his throat, Jahaan fought the urge to take a gulp for himself. Ozan needed it more.

Jahaan didn’t notice the sun start to rise, but being so high up in the clouds, once he clocked onto it, he could get a magnificent view. Ozan was sleeping now, uncomfortable and charred and ragged on the citadel floor, but sleep was the only cure for his injuries right now. Jahaan couldn’t leave him up here without treatment for long, but he couldn’t bring him back down to Gielinor’s surface. For all he was aware, Zemouregal assumed them both dead, and as long as the wicked Mahjarrat kept thinking that way, they were safe from him trying to finish the job.

No, until Ozan was able to stand - gods know how long that would take - they would remain in the safety of the skies. The invitation box would plant them right in the centre of the clearing north of Ardougne, a town with guilds and medical supplies that could potentially aid them.

It was also the closest town to Hazeel’s hideout and Khazard’s territory, making the large city home to who-knows how many spies and soldiers loyal to the Zamorakian Mahjarrat.

_ What if they had sent word out about me? What if the word got back to Zemouregal? _

It was these thoughts that helped focus part of his mind on something other than his wounded, half-dying best friend lying beside him. These worries kept him sane, and they kept the anger bubbling up. Jahaan did not resent this - subconsciously, he  _ welcomed  _ it. That hate he’d felt for Lucien for so long, the longing to slit his throat and watch the blood drain from his eyes, to see him torn apart by a pack of hungry hellhounds, to see his head caved in by a crude hammer... 

...now all that was redirecting itself at Zemouregal, and it made him feel  _ alive _ . The skin on his arms and hands fizzed with nervous energy, and his breathing was ragged and out of sync. It was exactly how he felt before he cut down that knight outside of Al Kharid, where everything inside of him coiled up and spat out this violence, this hatred, this blind and murderous rage.

He’d felt like this many times before, and Ozan was one of the few that could help him control it. After the murder of Guthix, Jahaan knew that his wires were frayed, and when he finally snapped, Ozan was the only one that could calm him down, that could bring him back to earth.

He needed to get to Zemouregal before the element of surprise was over, before the Mahjarrat realised the two of them escaped alive, albeit barely. He’d find him, and however he damn well could, whether it was by a sword, axe, arrow or his bare hands, he’d kill him.

“I’ll fucking kill him,” Jahaan muttered under his breath, repeatedly, his teeth chattering as his pulse started to race.

Due to his frayed nerves, teetering his sanity on a knife’s edge, as soon as Jahaan heard the whisper of a teleport spell enter the citadel, he slashed his dagger from his belt and shot up from Ozan’s side, ready for war.

However, when it was Sliske who walked into the chamber, he managed to relax his stance, though only slightly.

“What are you doing here?” he snapped.

“I could ask you the same question now, couldn’t I?” Sliske returned, sauntering closer. His eyes conveyed something unfamiliar to Jahaan. Something that combined curiosity with apprehension. Something almost akin to  _ worry _ . “I told you, I like to come here to watch the sunrise. But what are you doing here? What happened to you, and-” his eyes fell to Ozan, and his tone was a lot more stern when he demanded, “What happened, World Guardian?”

Sheathing his dagger, Jahaan replied through gritted teeth. “Your Mahjarrat friend, Zemouragal, happened. Apparently he didn’t take too kindly to me siding with you over Zamorak.”

Sliske let out a tight exhale, muttering something in a harsh vocabulary that hurt Jahaan’s ears. Turning back to Jahaan, he asked again, slowly, “What happened, World Guardian? Tell me everything.”

That was all Jahaan needed to unleash everything that had transpired in the short evening that felt like a lifetime. How he woke up next to the severed heads of Sir Tiffy and Thaerisk, with Zemouregal looming over the edge of his bed; how the Mahjarrat had set fire to the inn, causing the flames to engulf the building at an unprecedented rate; how he and Ozan barely escaped with their lives thanks to the invitation box Jahaan had held onto and, finally, how Zemouregal was going to  _ pay _ .

Once he’d finished his heated rant, through which Sliske had listened patiently, not reacting much at all, Jahaan felt breathless. Panting, he didn’t even notice just how red in the face he’d gotten, or how the vein in his forehead had started to bulge. After a few short breaths, Jahaan looked straight into Sliske’s yellow irises and demanded, “I need you to teleport me to Zemouregal’s fortress.”

Sliske blinked. “Come again?”

“Teleport me to the fortress, NOW,” Jahaan barked, his teeth chattering again.

“Yes… no I’m not doing that.”

“I’m going to kill him, Sliske, and all I need is a teleport,” Jahaan felt sick with impatience, his nerve-endings alive with electricity.

Again, Sliske refused. “A teleport to your demise? I don’t think so.”

Throwing his backpack over his shoulder, Jahaan declared, “Fine. I’LL FUCKING WALK.”

Blocking Jahaan’s path to the scattered invitation box, Sliske said, “Hey now, you only best Zemmy once and, if you're being honest with yourself, that was a fluke. If you give him home turf, well... if the cold and the bandits don't kill you, his undead army will finish you off before you even reach him. And besides, you’ve lost your armour and your weaponry - are you really going to try and murder a Mahjarrat with that little butterknife? Think this through.”

Admittedly, Jahaan began to hesitate, gravity slowly clawing him back down to the ground.

It was only when Sliske added, “And besides, what of Ozan? You really expect me to babysit him while you get yourself killed?” that Jahaan finally tossed his bag back down to the floor and dropped to his knees.

Gravity had brought him down, and now it was suffocating him. Gazing over at Ozan’s near-lifeless body, the nausea churning in the pit of Jahaan’s stomach caused him to wretch, but he swallowed it down. His head was spinning at a rate of knots, the lump in his throat choking him. One by one, tears started streaming down his cheeks, but he didn’t even bother to wipe them away. The salt stung, but he held his eyes on Ozan.

His disjointed, weighted thoughts were interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, Sliske had those very same eyes again, ones of sympathy - a state of mind that Jahaan didn’t know Mahjarrat were even capable of, least of all Sliske.

“Come with me,” he said, quietly, offering Jahaan a hand to help him up.

Taking it, Jahaan dazedly began, “B-But what about…”

“In his condition, Ozan will sleep for hours. I’ll hide him in the Shadow Realm,” Sliske assured, “Zemouregal won’t be able to find him. Don’t worry.”

Sliske knelt down beside Ozan and placed a hand on his chest. Then, with a wave of his other hand, Ozan was wrapped in shadows and mist, and when it cleared, he was gone.

Holding out his hand again, Sliske repeated, “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” Jahaan managed to ask, hesitantly holding out his arm.

A small smile crept into the corners of Sliske’s lips, but for once, it bore no malice. “I don’t get to say this and mean it often, but trust me, Jahaan.”

And you know what? Jahaan did.

He took Sliske’s hand, and they were whisked away.


	2. Eye for an Eye

Ahh, Prifddinas. The greatest city of the elves. Nay, the greatest settlement in all of Gielinor! Since hearing the tales of a crystal empire as a child, Jahaan had always wanted to visit. However, they didn’t let just anyone in, and their seclusion was part of why they’d survived since the First Age without external conflict. Throughout the God Wars the elves protected themselves by erecting massive granite walls across their eastern border, refusing to involve themselves in the conflicts of the other gods, as was their goddess’ intention. The aforementioned goddess? Seren, a name spoken in curiosity among the other races of Gielinor. Nobody really knew too much about the origins of the crystalline goddess, only that she brought the elves from their homeworld of Tarddiad. The legend goes that Seren became mesmerised by the elves and their way of living, and upon seeing one of them die of age, was overcome with such great sorrow that she tried to use her godly powers to extend their lifespan. However, in doing so, she accidentally tied them to her, causing them to grow ill and perish when out of her presence for too long. Thus, when Guthix’s Edicts required Seren to depart, she shattered herself into a million crystal fragments so that a part of her would always be with her elves. At some point towards the end of the Fifth Age, Seren had been reformed, and lived among her elves once more. At some point during its history, tales claim that Prifddinas had somehow, miraculously, reverted to the size of a single crystal seed. Yes, the largest settlement in all of Gielinor had shrunk to the size of an acorn, with the residents inside frozen in time. To top it all off, the legend claims that the elders of Prifddinas sung the city back to life.

Whether that was true or not, Jahaan was very skeptical. The saying goes that stranger things have happened, but, really,  _ have they? _

But when Jahaan emerged on a tall hilltop, surrounded by luscious forests and looking down over the crystal walls of the city, elven history was the furthest thing from his mind.

He’d never seen such shades of green before. Not murky likes the swamps of Morytania, not artificial like how greenery in Falador felt, not tainted like the plant life in Canifis and Draynor. Even the gnomes couldn’t lay claim to such a brilliant shade of nature’s favourite colour; this was what the elder gods had intended when they wove forests out of the anima. But the only thing more brilliant than the shades of nature were the crystals, shining like diamonds in the glow of the morning sun.

The entire city was constructed from these crystals, a substitute from the bulky wood and crude stone seen across most of Gielinor. The craftsmanship, the way the crystal bends to the will of the architect… Jahaan didn’t know enough about Prifddinas to know how the city was built from these crystals, or where they came from, and one day he hoped to find out, just as he hoped to walk through the city gates and up to the Tower of Voices, rumoured to be one of the tallest structures in all of Gielinor. Considering how it reached up into the heavens even from this distance, Jahaan could clearly see the rumours had some merit.

It was rare to see elves outside of Prifddinas. After all, why would they ever need to leave? Everything one could ever need was inside those crystal walls, from banks to bars, sawmills to staff shops, altars to anvils. It was a compact Gielinor. There were elves roaming the territory just outside of their walls; there had been a civil war among them not too long before Prifddinas’ supposed ‘restoration’ and smaller factions were still camped out south of the border. Alongside this, their were whisperings about elves in West Ardougne, and they were grave tales indeed. Talks of death guards, a fake plague, regicide and the intended mass killing of all of West Ardougne’s residents in order to summon a ‘dark lord’.

The thought of it made Jahaan’s head spin and his stomach churn.

So little is known about the elves, it’s hard to know what to believe. That’s why Jahaan wanted to go to Prifddinas, to search for information that his people in the Khandarin Desert had never concerned themselves with, being at opposite ends of the world and all.

This is the closest he’d ever come to the elven city, and after taking just a brief view from the hilltop, he never wanted to leave.

“Whoa…” was all he said, exhaling a shaky breath.

“Do you like it?” Sliske asked, but he knew it was a rhetorical question. Shifting his robe out of the way, he took a seat on the thick grass below. “This is about as close as, ah, someone like  _ me  _ can get without entering into the Shadow Realm, but it’s still quite a view.”

“Yeah, I do like it,” Jahaan’s eyes were transfixed on the crystal city as he took a seat beside the Mahjarrat. There was a peace inside him he hadn’t felt in hours, a respite from the anguish and worry. “I like it a lot.”

The two stared at the horizon for what felt like an eon, enjoying the serenity of the sunrise as it crept over the crystals in the distance.

Finally, it was Sliske who broke their content silence. Smiling without humour, he quietly whispered, more to himself than to Jahaan, “It must be nice, knowing there will always be a world after this one.”

“Huh?” Jahaan didn’t quite hear that.

“I said, it must be nice, living in a place like that,” he ‘repeated’, nodding his head towards Prifddinas with a wistful expression.

Jahaan didn’t completely believe that’s what he said, but he didn’t press it further. There was a peacefulness between the two of them, and Jahaan didn’t want to be the one to ruin it. Instead, he moved slightly closer to Sliske, and didn’t shy away when the Mahjarrat wrapped a warm, protective arm around him, pulling him softly against his chest.

It was the first time he’d felt at peace for a long while.

The two of them remained in quiet contemplation after that. Jahaan spent too much of it wondering what was going through the Mahjarrat’s mind. Sliske was an enigma, a puzzle to him, the quiet and the storm, but moreover, he was one thing Jahaan was becoming less and less reluctant to admit…

_ He’s not as bad as he seemed. _

Jahaan began to struggle to remember why he hated the Mahjarrat in the first place. He didn’t particularly want to remember. He had enough enemies, enough Mahjarrat enemies at that, to actively  _ want  _ another one.

Suddenly, his throat began to sour and the calmness inside his mind began to cloud.

_ Zemouregal. _

The storm in his head was brewing once more, manifesting as a knot in his stomach and a lump in his throat.

“I want him dead, Sliske,” Jahaan’s voice was grave; he didn’t need to say who he meant. “I want him dead, and I won't wait five hundred years for it to happen.”

The Mahjarrat kept looking towards Prifddinas as he said, “You're not the only one that wants him gone, you know. I can help you... but at a cost.”

Jahaan didn't blink. “Name your price.”

“I want your soul.”

_ Now  _ Jahaan blinked. “E-Excuse me?”

“I want your soul,” Sliske repeated, returning his gaze to Jahaan.

“Why? Do you want to… to make me a wight?” Jahaan shook his head in unnerved disbelief.

Quickly, Sliske replied, “Asking questions isn't part of the deal. You accept unconditionally, or you don’t accept my help at all.”

Jahaan thought for a long, hard moment, challenging Sliske’s satisfied expression. Finally, he declared, “If you help me kill him, you can have whatever the hell you want.”

And so it was settled. They were going to kill Zemouregal. Not just the two of them, mind - Sliske stated that it wouldn’t be too hard to persuade Azzanadra and Wahisietel to eliminate the threat he poses once and for all. Just by being a Zamorakian, Azzanadra already had skin in the game. Wahisietel might take a little bit more convincing, and Jahaan offered to talk to him while Sliske went to Azzanadra. Knowing the strained relationship between the two brothers, Jahaan knew he stood a better chance than Sliske did at enlisting Wahisietel to their cause.

Firstly, however, Jahaan had to get Ozan somewhere more permanent to recuperate. The poor man was still sound asleep, comatose, but at least he was alive.

“Do you have anyone you trust he can stay with? Anyone that can protect him?” Sliske inquired.

“You mean, do I know anyone capable of fending of a Mahjarrat?” Jahaan shook his head. “No.”

“They shouldn’t have to fight off Zemmy,” Sliske assured. “He thinks you’re dead, remember? And one of the upsides of being dead is that no-one comes looking for you. So as long as you don’t parade him in Varrock Square, he should be safe.”

Considering this, Jahaan replied, “In that case, I know where he can go.”

Jahaan emerged just in front of the bridge connecting Draynor to the Wizards' Tower, dropping to his knees and sending Ozan tumbling to the ground upon landing. Sliske hadn’t stuck around long enough to ensure a smooth landing, it seemed. Groaning in pain, Jahaan quickly realised that once the adrenaline had worn off, he was in no fit shape. Wincing with a silent apology to Ozan, he tested out his legs again before picking up his friend and carrying him over the bridge.

It didn’t take long for the Wizards' to allow Jahaan inside, seeing the state of the poor man he was holding. The wizards were well acquainted with Ozan by this point, and Jahaan had met a fair few of them on his travels too.

Ushered into the medical bay, Ozan was set down on one of the cots as someone went to find Ariane. It didn’t take long for her to make it down, rushing to Ozan’s side with her heart in her throat. “What happened to him?”

Gulping, Jahaan stammered as he explained, “T-There was a fire… I w-was attacked, and he was d-drugged, and…”

Trailing off, Jahaan’s head was so foggy he honestly had no idea where to begin; he felt like he was trapped inside an awful dream, the edges of the world blurry and faded. Reality was far too much to handle.

“You were attacked? So it was arson...” when Ariane turned to Jahaan, the man noted her eyes were much more accusational than concerned, and he was taken aback, especially as she was quick to demand, “What have you got him mixed up in this time?”

Mouth hung agape, Jahaan took a few paces back, his wide eyes held captive by her glare. “W-What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Jahaan,” Ariane snapped, the soothing hand she wrapped inside Ozan’s lifeless ones juxtaposed harshly with her seething tone, though she tried to keep her voice down to a quiet hiss. “You’re a picture of guilt. Let me guess, you ticked off the wrong people and they came back for revenge. Only this time, Ozan was collateral damage. Ozan told me about the company you’ve been keeping; was it the same Mahjarrat who killed Guthix that did this to him?”

“N-No… I mean, yes it was a Mahjarrat, but not the same one,” Jahaan stated, nervously rubbing the back of his head, injured from each of Ariane’s cutting words that felt as if they were closing in around his throat. “Yes, this is all my fault. But I’m going to make it right.”

“Make it right?” Ariane replied with incredulation. “You’re only liable to make things worse! Why Guthix ever chose you as-”

She cut herself off there, taking a long breath to calm herself. Even Ariane looked slightly regretful at where her words were leading her.

The sentiment, however, had already stung, and Jahaan had no words to say.

Despite mutually knowing each other for years through Ozan, Jahaan had always gotten the impression that Ariane had never taken to him. Occasionally he’d ask Ozan if this were the case, and he’d laugh and deny it, saying it was all in Jahaan’s head. But deep down, he always knew, and now he had confirmation.

Sighing heavily, Ariane continued, in a much lower and measured voice this time, “We’ll heal him as much as we can and keep him safe. When he’s awake, you can come and visit him. After that, I don’t want you seeing Ozan ever again.”

Jahaan used the invitation box to make his way back to the Empyrean Citadel. He needed time to deliberate his encounter with Ariane, but now wasn’t the moment. Work had to be done, and the more time he wasted, the more likely Zemouregal would find out he was alive, and thus the element of surprise would be lost.

Sliske had offered to teleport Jahaan to Nardah in order to avoid the magic carpet debacle again, something for which Jahaan was incredibly grateful. He didn’t think his head could take another round of motion sickness.

The dust settled, and Jahaan was back in Nardah. Well, about half a mile outside Nardah; Sliske didn’t think a Mahjarrat springing into their town centre would go down well for anyone, except for the pitchfork selling business.

Trudging through the sand, Jahaan was almost thankful his armour had been destroyed, but less thankful that he hadn’t refilled his waterskin, making a mental note to do that when he got to the town’s fountain.

When he reached Ali the Wise’s house, he barely had to knock before the door was thrown open, stern and suspicious eyes darting past Jahaan and into the distance. “Come inside,” he ushered, quickly, taking one last look behind him before he closed the door.

“What’s the matter?” Jahaan inquired, puzzled.

“Sliske was nearby,” Wahisietel stated. “I felt his presence. Thought you might be him at my door.”

“I think he’s got a few inches on me, can’t see how you could mistake us,” Jahaan chuckled.

Wahisietel furrowed his brow as Jahaan’s relaxed demeanour. “Are you not concerned? It was you who came here to escape him not that long ago.”

“Sliske brought me here,” Jahaan explained, smiling at the reaction it brought to the disguised Mahjarrat’s face. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you everything. You might wanna sit down for this one…”

While Jahaan conversed with Wahisietel, Sliske went to go convince Azzanadra to join their plight. He slipped off his disguise as soon as he entered the Temple at what used to be Senntisten. Azzanadra, having sensed his arrival, was pensively waiting at the other end of the chamber, nearest the altar.

“Sliske,” he gruffly greeted, folding his arms over his chest. “You have got quite the nerve to be showing your face around here after your excommunication.”

“Ah yes, well,” Sliske clapped his hands together. “I was hoping we might be able to sweep that one under the rug, for now at least. I have a proposition for you. One I think you'd rather enjoy...”

Wahisietel nearly spit the tea out from his mouth. “You’re going to kill Zemouregal?!”

Hushing him, Jahaan hissed, “Why don’t you shout a little louder, I don’t think the barber in Falador heard you.”

“My apologies, I just…” shaking his head, Wahisietel composed himself. “This is no small feat. Zemouregal is not to be brushed off lightly, as you know. While I do wish to see his head unattached from his shoulders, I-”

Looking down at Jahaan’s expression, Wahisietel winced. “Apologies for my turn of phrase. Sir Tiffy Cashien was a noble knight, and Thaerisk Cemphier seemed like a good man, in the brief time I spent with them. I am truly sorry for your loss.”

“Their loss has to be avenged,” Jahaan resolved, gravely. “I know the risks, but I can’t let them be murdered in vain. What would you do in my shoes?”

From the change of expression on his face, it appeared as if this was a turning point for Wahisietel. “It would be hypocritical of me to say I would act any differently. They may call me ‘Ali the Wise’ in these human lands, but I am still of the Mahjarrat. One thing that still sticks in my craw, though, is Sliske’s involvement in it all. Why is he helping you?”

“He wants my soul,” Jahaan replied as nonchalantly as possible, amused by the look of surprise that elicited from his Mahjarrat companion. “Obviously I’m not going to let that happen. Your brother is-”

“Half-brother.”

“Your _ half _ -brother is… he’s not as bad as you say he is, but even I have limits.”

“I must ask, why do you defend him so?” Wahisietel inquired, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “He murdered Guthix in front of you, tricked you, betrayed you, lied to you, stalked you, and from what I’ve heard from Azzanadra, he’s attacked you as well. I don’t understand your loyalty. You know, you remind me of Azzanadra, but at least I can understand that one. Well, somewhat.”

Crinkling his brow, Jahaan asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well, you see - and this stays strictly between us, you hear? - back in the Zarosian Empire, and even on Freneskae, Azzanadra and Sliske went through a period of being… close.”

Jahaan blinked. “Close?”

“Close,” Wahisietel reiterated, his hands conducting an invisible orchestra in front of him as his mind danced for the right words. “You humans might refer to it as a relationship.”

Now it was Jahaan who nearly spit out his tea. “Sliske and Azzanadra were an item?!”

Jahaan didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and it seemed Wahisietel was struggling with the same dilemma as he replied, “I know, it’s baffling why they’d waste their time on such things. But Azzanadra was the leader of the church, and Sliske was the leader of the secret police. No-one would dare speak out against them. On Freneskae, few were aware of their dynamic. Those that were kept silent, for they were outpowered. I understand Sliske’s charm and charisma, things he used to his advantage whenever he was bored in Senntisten. Such a trivial past-time. People fell under his spell, and it was always their downfall. Even Zaros’ most beloved pontifex could not escape.”

Wahisietel returned to his tea. “After all these years, it still baffles me why Azzanadra resolves to trust Sliske, and now you’re following his lead. Heh. As long as-”

Wahisietel froze, his cup glued to the tops of his lips, his eyes wide with realisation. Slowly, he raised his head and glared through Jahaan with a strange mix of confusion and abject horror. “Please, for Zaros’ sake, please tell me I’m wrong…”

Jahaan winced, breaking contact with Wahisietel’s eyes. It was all the confirmation he needed, yet the Mahjarrat pressed, “What did he do to you?”

“He didn’t do anything,” Jahaan assured, biting the inside of his lip. “He… he tried, but nothing happened. Believe me.”

Wahisietel’s unwavering glare bore holes through the man. “But you wanted to, didn’t you?”

Jahaan’s shameful inability to meet Wahisietel’s gaze said everything that needed to be said.

The Mahjarrat mumbled something in infernal, rising to his feet as he paced the room. “I warned you about him, Jahaan. But I never knew that… never could have DREAMED that… that you would…”

Stopping to face Jahaan, he stated with unwavering assurance, “He does not harbour feelings. He is incapable. He just uses people for his own amusement, then he discards them when they stop being entertaining, or when they are no longer useful. I don’t know what game he’s playing with you, but he’s playing a game, Jahaan!”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Jahaan shot up, ever so slightly taller than Wahisietel when he was in his Ali form. “I know what he’s like, Wahisietel - I’ve got first-hand fucking experience with that. But damnit, he’s inside my head, always inside my head, and I can’t take it!”

Suddenly, Jahaan whirled on the thing closest to him - a bookshelf - in order to expend the pent-up rage his outburst had summoned. Unfortunately, the books were a little less forgiving than Jahaan would have liked, and the thick novels put up a decent defence; Jahaan clutched his battered hand, the knuckles already forming a purple bruise, his fingers shaking and unable to move. “Gods, FUCK!” Jahaan cursed, turning back to Wahisietel with an indignant expression akin to, ‘do you see what they did to me?!’. Muttering lowly, though with the slightest hint of an amused smile, Wahisietel went to get a medical kit.

A few bandages and another cup of tea later, Jahaan had calmed down, feeling rather embarrassed about his childish flare-up. Miraculously, nothing had fractured; Jahaan deduced he was too exhausted to give the punch all he had. That, or he just had a pathetically weak right hook, which he’d rather not be the case.

The silence that followed was awkward, each man lost in their own contemplation of the preceding events. Eventually, it was Wahisietel who broke the quiet, carefully beginning, “I have said my piece in regards to you and my half-brother. I trust that you know what you are doing.”

“You shouldn’t, because I don’t even know what I’m doing,” Jahaan sniffed a humourless laugh.

“I just wish I knew why he wanted my soul. I thought he wanted to make me a wight, but when I asked him, he deflected. I don’t think that’s the case, but why else would he want my soul?”

Stroking the beard his human form had adopted, Wahisietel replied, “Sliske has always been fascinated in souls. He used to talk to me about a Teragardian magister by the name of ‘Oreb’, who experimented with the power of souls and hypothesised that souls can be transferred from one body to another. This is the same magister who took in Nomad as his pupil, much later in life. Sliske was particularly interested in his theories.”

“Why was that, do you reckon?”

“Well, for one, Mahjarrat don’t  _ have  _ souls. Therefore, we cannot pass onto an afterlife, for a soul is required to do such a thing. For all his blustering, there is one thing Sliske fears: death.”

Suddenly, it clicked into place, the phrase Jahaan thought he didn’t quite hear outside of Prifddinas:  _ ‘It must be nice, knowing there will always be a world after this one’. _

“So, he wants my soul so he can go to an afterlife?” Jahaan surmised. “But that would leave me with the inability to go to one myself.”

Frowning, Wahisietel grimly restated, “He uses people. He doesn’t take interest in them unless they have something to offer.”

“But…” Jahaan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “But why my soul? Why not just anyone?”

Shrugging, Wahisietel confessed, “That I cannot be sure of, I’m afraid.”

“Is there anything I can do to protect myself, if he tries to take my soul by force?”

His frown deepening, Wahisietel replied, “There is no spell, prayer or curse that I’m aware of that can do such a thing. My advice is to not get into a situation where your soul in vulnerable. Though how you would go about that, I am not sure. I don’t even know how he would go about transferring your soul into himself.”

This uncertainty didn’t exactly fill Jahaan with much comfort. Then again, Sliske was uncertainty incarnate; sipping his tea, Jahaan continued on, “These random, bizarre acts of kindness from Sliske... I don't know what to make of them. I can't ever tell if he's being genuine, or if he's just messing with me. I know, I know, you say he only ever uses people, but… but maybe he can be nice - even a broken clock is right twice a day, right? I mean, he saved my life at the Ritual, he helped keep Ozan safe…”

Jahaan neglected to mention their recent excursion to the outskirts of Prifddinas. He didn't quite know why, but sharing that information so freely just didn't feel right. It was like a secret he promised not to tell, unspoken though it was.

Wahisietel did not look impressed. “You do not know him like I know him, Jahaan, and I hope you never meet the Sliske I once knew.”

A crooked smile broke into Jahaan’s features, one devoid of humour. “I’ve heard stories.”

“Stories do not do his actions justice, but that is a conversation for another time,” setting down his teacup, Wahisietel closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, like he was trying to shift Sliske’s ghost from his thoughts. “Now, about Zemouregal - are you serious about killing him?”

His resolve returned, Jahaan stated, “I am.”

“And you say that Azzanadra is aiding us in this?”

“Sliske’s gone to convince him.”

“Then perhaps it would pay us to join him,” Wahisietel declared, reverting to his Mahjarrat form. “We’re going to need to strategise, after all.”

_ Meanwhile... _

“Hmm… well, we certainly have enough firepower on our side to outmatch him,” Azzanadra was pondering aloud, running through the idea in his head. Sliske wasn’t all that surprised he could talk Azzanadra into killing Zemouregal so easily; there was no love lost between the two, after all. “It would be one less opponent at the next Ritual. Out of all the Zamorakians, he certainly is the most insufferable.”

Turning towards Sliske, he declared, “If the World Guardian manages to get Wahisietel on our side, then you have my support too. Zaros can only be pleased at us for sending that traitor into the void.”

Knowing he’d succeeded, Sliske grinned. “Oh, the Empty Lord will be most pleased. The World Guardian is convincing my brother now. He agreed to meet us here if all was successful.”

Looking around at the renovated chamber, Sliske admired the attention to detail Azzanadra had put into the restoration. Whomever the carpenter was, Sliske made a mental note to ask for their information if he ever decided to renovate the Barrows. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Brings back memories.”

Sighing wistfully, Azzanadra replied, “It feels like home.”

Raising an eyebrow, Sliske countered, “You don’t feel like Freneskae is your home anymore?”

“I stopped feeling that way as soon as Zaros took us in,” Azzanadra gazed longingly at the symbol on the far wall. “There is no home without him.”

“Right…” Sliske awkwardly rocked on his heels. He’d never felt the devotion his Mahjarrat companion had to the Empty Lord. Oh, he’d been loyal. He’d even been a follower. One might have called him devout, at a pinch. But Azzanadra was on an entirely different level.

Then again, Sliske agreed it did feel nice being back in the temple. It reminded him of a time when he had a role in society, and while that inevitably grew  _ boring _ , such times had a treasured place in his memories. Those were days that would never be seen again.

It was then he turned to study Azzanadra, who was repositioning the candles on the altar. His robes draped perfectly over him, like a royal coat, and while he did insist on wearing that  _ ridiculous hat _ , he managed to pull it off with prowess and grace.

So to did Azzanadra bring back some welcomed memories.

Sliske saw an opportunity, and he decided to test the waters.

He slipped closer to Azzanadra, his shadow a sneering presence that towered over them both. With a coy smirk, he smoothly remarked, “You know, it’s been such a long time since you and I have been alone together.”

There was no way Azzanadra didn’t get the insinuation; he met Sliske with stern eyes. “There’s good reason for that.”

“And what, pray tell, is that?” Sliske gently brushed his hand over Azzanadra’s, who to their mutual surprise did not immediately flinch away.

“Don’t act so innocent,” Azzanadra snapped. “You know damn well what I mean.”

“The excommination?” sniffing a faint laugh, Sliske looked up at the taller Mahjarrat with half-lidded eyes and moved closer to him, so that their chests touched. “Since when has Zaros ever gotten between us before? I seem to remember a certain Pontifex Maximus regularly calling the Praefectus Praetorio into his office for more than just matters of state...”

Sliske let the words linger, hot breath on Azzanadra’s cheek.

At that moment, Wahisietel and Jahaan emerged inside the temple. Catching the scene, Jahaan forced himself to suppress a smirk as he remarked, “Are we interrupting something?”

Wahisietel just shook his head with disappointment.

Sighing with frustration, Sliske whirled around and commented, “Crackerjack timing, and here I thought Wahi would take longer to convince.”

Despite himself, Jahaan felt like giggling, and covered his mouth with his hand until he was certain he’d contained himself. During this, Wahisietel spoke up, “Jahaan has told me of your plan, Sliske. What say you, Azzanadra?”

“I am willing to partake,” Azzanadra declared. “We have three times his power. It is the perfect opportunity. And,” he turned to Jahaan, trying to muster what to a Mahjarrat would pass as ‘sympathy’. “We finally have the incentive to remove that stain from this world. I am sorry at the price you and your comrades had to pay, Jahaan.”

Jahaan nodded solemnly in way of thanks. “So, when do we go? Tonight?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sliske was the first one to cut in. “You are running on nothing but fumes. You need to rest if you are to be of any help to us.”

Jahaan opened his mouth to protest, but the action betrayed him, turning into a yawn. Smugly, Sliske grinned.

“Fine,” Jahaan conceded, admitting to himself that he was exhausted. “When then?”

“Five days,” Azzanadra stated. “While I admire your enthusiasm, Sliske’s right - you need to be of use to us, and you can’t do that unless you have armour and a weapon. Your previous set was destroyed in the fire, yes? I will provide you with another set, specially made.”

Gobsmacked, Jahaan had to shake his head to order his thoughts. “That… that is incredibly generous of you, Azzanadra. Thank you, deeply.”

Azzanadra managed the faintest of smiles. “It is the least I could do. After all, it was you who brought my lord back to me.”


	3. Ready for Battle

Jahaan agreed to lay low at the temple with Azzanadra until they were ready to attack. After all, the last place Zemouregal was likely to wander into was a Zarosian Temple. If he could stay out of sight until then, they’d still have the element of surprise. Then again, how much they actually needed it was debatable, what with a three-Mahjarrat assault on their side.

The next day, at dusk, the three reconvened in the Temple to strategise.

Zemouregal's fort is a manor located east of Trollweiss Mountain, deep in the snowy realms of northern Gielinor. It was given to him by Zamorak for his assistance in overthrowing Zaros in the Second Age, and has since been used as his home and base of operations. One might think that it must be quite lonely up there, having no-one for company other than his undead minions. Well, he does have his second in command with him up there, a gargoyle by the name of Sharathteerk. Now, gargoyles aren’t usually known for their sentience, but Sharathteerk was different; his intelligence and loyalty allowed him the rank of Zemouregal’s second.

I’m sure after a few centuries, though, the two ran out of things to talk about.

The fortress itself was high towers and solid stone walls, sharp portcullises and a grand skull carved into the front, just to reiterate - if it wasn’t already apparent - that one should ‘be afraid, be very afraid’. Zombies patrolled the perimetre, slowly lumbering on anything that catches their… eye? Ear? Nose? However zombies target their prey, anyway. Now, one zombie isn’t a problem for almost anyone with a sharp enough sword and the forethought to aim for the head. Zemouregal had FUCKTONNES.

From afar it looked like a grotty ocean, the mindless movements of the zombies resembling waves crashing and falling. For zombies, the best strategy is to take them out from a distance, as they can’t really do much about an enemy with a bow and arrow or a magic spell. If you have one to hand, a canon takes them out in no time.

Alas, Jahaan and his merry band of Mahjarrat didn’t have a cannon to hand, but they did have a lot of mystic firepower.

So, for a frontal assault, they’d be no problem, right? Well, as Jahaan found out in Guthix’s chamber, Zemouregal is wise enough to at least know when he is bested, and even he wouldn’t dare take on three Mahjarrat and a bloke with a couple of swords all by himself; if he saw the assault charging over the horizon, he’d likely make a break for it, and the opportunity would be lost.

“Why not just teleport into his fortress, kill the son of a bitch and high tail it out of there?” Jahaan suggested.

A teleport block, put simply. Zemouregal and his minions can leave and enter, but no-one unauthorised can teleport inside. It’s a basic magic spell that prominent figures across Gielinor use to protect their castles, strongholds, homes, anything at all. Yet despite its simplicity, no-one has discovered a way to break it. Rumour has it that the dark wizards have been experimenting, but with little success.

“We have to cast our own teleport block around the fortress,” Azzanadra stated, sighing as he begrudgingly added, “However, this can only be done after the beacon containing his teleport block spell is broken.”

There was also another issue - Zemouregal can sense the presence of Mahjarrat around him.

“But he can’t sense me,” Jahaan was quick to declare. “If I can break that beacon, you can cast the tele-block spell. We'll then be able to storm the fortress and he won’t be able to escape.”

Wahisietel considered this. “It’s a start, but there are still many issues to this plan. For instance, how would you get inside Zemouregal’s fortress? Even with those swords of yours, you would be overrun in an instant against his undead horde.”

“Lamistard’s tunnels,” Sliske piped up, softly. He was staring at the ground, locked in quiet concentration. It was only now he regained his excited energy to explain, “Remember, the Mahjarrat who tried to tunnel his way to be underneath the Ritual Marker, but instead the damn fool accidentally wound up inside Zemouregal’s Fortress?”

“The sacrifice at the 16th Gielinorian Ritual,” Azzanadra nodded in remembrance, a smile tugging at his lips as he realised where Sliske was going with this. “Jahaan could make his way through the tunnels and bypass the horde.”

“You can’t go alone,” Wahisietel stated. “But he’ll sense one of us if we’re nearby. Sliske, does the Shadow Realm mask his Mahjarrat sensing ability?”

“Somewhat,” Sliske replied, tentatively. “But if we’re that close, he’ll notice something. My suggestion is that one of you two goes to the Ritual Marker. He’ll sense a Mahjarrat close by, but your presence will conflict with mine, and he won’t be able to tell how close the World Guardian and I are to him.”

Sternly, Wahisietel countered, “I think it best that  _ I  _ accompany the World Guardian.”

Trying to hide a smile, Sliske inquired, “When was the last time you entered the Shadow Realm, brother?”

“While I don’t lurk in the shadows as much as you, Sliske, I know how to navigate the Shadow Realm.”

In order to prove it, Wahisietel stepped forward, closing his eyes to concentrate deeply.

Nothing happened.

Wahisietel squinted. His proficiency with the Shadow Realm had been nothing in comparison to his half-brother, but he could at least  _ see  _ into the thing. But no matter how hard he focused, he couldn’t manage it.

“Sliske, have you tampered with the Shadow Realm somehow?” he accused, gruffly. It seemed like a far-out claim, but if anyone was bold enough to tamper with an entire  _ realm _ , it was Sliske.

“Ah, yes,” Sliske chuckled nervously. “An unfortunate side-effect of an ongoing plan. Neither you, nor Azzanadra, nor any Mahjarrat can see into the Shadow Realm.”

“Sliske, that’s-!” Wahisietel stormed over to Sliske, who disappeared into the Shadow Realm with a click of his fingers before Wahisietel could deck him.

_ “Calm down, Wahi,” _ Sliske’s voice was echoed now that it was emanating from another realm.  _ “Look on the bright side - Zemmy can’t get in either. Only Janny and I.” _

Azzanadra crinkled his brow. “Why did you give the World Guardian access to the Shadow Realm?”

Reappearing behind Jahaan, Sliske placed two large gloved hands on Jahaan’s shoulders and shrugged. “Seemed like a fun idea at the time.”

“It’ll be fine,” Jahaan straightened up his shoulders, but didn’t shrug off the palms. “Sliske and I can handle this. If you go to the Marker, Azzanadra can cast the spell when it’s ready.”

Stepping forward, Azzanadra grew rather serious as he said, “Now listen, I know you want to take on Zemouregal alone - your tenacity would be commendable if it wasn’t so foolhardy. Yes, your armour will help protect against his magicks, and your swords can do a great deal of damage if you managed to get close enough, but the chances of you besting Zemouregal without our help is slim to none.”

“You tricked him into fighting on even ground once,” Sliske continued, “He won’t be tricked so easily this time, not when his back is against the wall. He will come at you with everything he has in order to survive.”

Wahisietel finished, “Allow us to help weaken him. If you must, you can strike the final blow in order to sate your bloodlust, but without our assistance in the battle, all of this will be in vein. You will die, and you can’t exactly enact vengeance from beyond the grave.”

Reluctantly, Jahaan let this sink in, looking between the Mahjarrat as they tried to convey the severity of what they were about to undertake. It hadn’t quite hit home for Jahaan yet, with his adrenaline and urge for revenge still at an all time high; the anger had sizzling under the surface of his skin ever since the night of the fire, though he’d kept it dormant for now. The Mahjarrat had a point, after all - if he was being honest with himself, Jahaan would admit that he got lucky against Zemouregal last time.

After contemplating this for a while, Jahaan accepted, “Okay, you’re right, I can’t face him alone. But please, let me be the one to end him for good.”

His smile growing with a hint of wickedness, Wahisietel said, “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

In the days that followed, Jahaan was getting rather restless in the Temple, for there wasn’t exactly much in the way of entertainment, and he often felt like a bother to his Mahjarrat host, who liked to spend most of his time in quiet prayer or reading one of the vast amounts of novels he'd accumulated over the years.

Jahaan was too restless to settle into a book; his mind churned at all hours, either worrying about Ozan, thinking of his bitter conversation with Ariane, seething at the memory of Zemouregal, or worse, trying to figure out exactly what Sliske wanted with his soul. Wahisietel’s theory seemed on point, that Sliske simply needed a ticket into the afterlife.

_ But why me? _ The question repeated over and over in his mind.  _ Why go through this whole charade if that’s how you plan for it to end? _

He found himself having to force the thoughts from his head as they riled him up too much. Restlessness was bad enough, and he needed to direct his anger at Zemouregal right now, not Sliske. The latter could be dealt with once Zemouregal was in a shallow grave.

So, in order to free his mind from such stresses, Jahaan focused on some training. Despite feeling like he’d asked for too much already, Jahaan buckled up the courage to ask for some runes, both of the ancient and normal variety. If he was to be cooped up for a while, he might as well make the most of his time. There was still a section of the mines yet to be cleared up from the temple’s restoration that made a perfect training ground, and Jahaan fortunately had enough prowess by now to not bring the entire cave down on top of him with a misused spell.

Azzanadra’s gifts, however, might negate the need for magic in the end, but it’s always best to be prepared.

“This material is elder rune,” Azzanadra explained, presenting the custom made armour set and dual longswords to Jahaan. “It was first discovered in limited quantities in the Third Age, but only very recently have more ore veins been unearthed. Like runite, it’s protection against conventional weaponry is unparalleled, providing significant protection against melee fighters. However, elder rune is special - it provides the same mystic protection as high tier combat mage robes, the likes of which we Mahjarrat don. Since you might be in the line of fire from Zemouregal himself, this will improve your survival odds tenfold, alongside protecting you from his undead abominations.”

Jahaan’s eyes sparkled like a kid on Wintumber’s morning. The entire armour and weapons set much have cost Azzanadra a fortune; Jahaan had never come close to any merchants selling the armour, only heard rumours about them, and let’s just say, a full set like this cost even more than a two bedroom starter home in Menaphos’ Imperial District. When armour costs more than a house, you know you mean business. Just one of the longswords alone would cost more than the entirety of his previous rune armour set.

“Azzanadra, I…” he dazily began, half-minded to refuse the set, unworthy as he felt.

The smile that Azzanadra attempted tried to be warm and soothing, bless him, but it didn’t come naturally. Nevertheless, the sentiment came across to Jahaan as the Mahjarrat assured, “This is but pocket change to me, do not fear. Like I mentioned previously, I am in your debt, World Guardian.”

Turning one of the longswords over in his hand, Jahaan dreamily replied, “Consider the debt paid in full, and then some…”

Unsurprisingly, the armour fit like a glove. Azzanadra must have sized him up pretty well, because it felt like it was tailor made. The way the armour curved to his body, never impeding his movement, like it was moulding and reforming with every strike and lunge… he’d never felt so comfortable, not even in silk. In comparison, it made his rune armour feel like iron. That was quite an unfair comparison - many warriors would kill to have a full runite set, and considering he got the thing for free, he didn’t want to sound ungrateful - but he’d be lying if he said he could go onto any other armour after wearing elder rune. There was no turning back now, and Jahaan was quite enjoying this side of being the World Guardian. Having friends in high places led to a taste of the good life.

The only weird thing about the armour was the slight tingle that tickled his skin. Azzanadra explained this was normal, that it was the side effects of a non-divine being coming into contact with high mystic protection. Mages never seemed to mention that, so they must have gotten used to it quickly, and Jahaan found that after wearing the set for a few hours, he himself barely noticed it anymore.

Naturally, the swords were a dream. They were longswords, and while Jahaan was used to shortswords, he quickly adjusted. Despite their increased length, they were lighter than what he was used to, which increased his fluid movements and made each strike more precise, for he felt he had more control over them. Not to mention they were even more deadly that his last set - some poor training dummies confirmed that. Zemouregal’s armoured zombies usually wore iron or steel, so as an experiment, Jahaan put a steel platebody on a melee training dummy.

The armour, and the dummy inside, was sliced clean in half.

He’d had more strain slicing a loaf of bread.

Jahaan was raring to go, and a good thing too, for the next day, as soon as the sun set, they would strike Zemouregal’s fort.

Wahisietel shivered as the cold air of the Ritual Site bit through his robes. Once again, he’d come to the plateau underdressed, having not learned his lesson from last time. Huddling into himself, he approached the Marker with caution. It wasn’t exactly going to attack, but its presence was so imposing and formidable that it caused the ridges on his back to rise. On the ground, partially buried among the snow, he saw the shining glimmer of something. Carefully brushing the snow away, he noticed a yellow crystal glimmering. Lucien’s crystal.

The gem was now cold to the touch, having lost the life essence that allowed it to radiate heat. Picking it up, Wahisietel couldn’t help but feel a knot in his stomach.

_ This is all that is left of him, _ he thought to himself, turning the crystal over in his palm. Delicately, he placed it back on the ground where it was found, regretting having disturbed it in the first place. Mahjarrat superstation didn’t forbid the handling of gems; many carried around the crystals of their fallen kin, and Wahisietel was no exception, keeping them in an ornate box in his Nardah home. However, Lucien was not kin.

Memories of the last Ritual flashed through Wahisietel’s mind in an unwelcome storm, and it made him think towards the next Ritual. It was many centuries away, but time seemed to flow differently for an immortal, and it would creep upon him before he knew it. The question of a suitable sacrifice was one thing that troubled him. Killing Zemouregal was, in many ways, a waste of a perfectly good sacrifice, but it had to be done. With him and Lucien gone, that left Enakhra and Khazard as the last remaining Zamorakian Mahjarrat. As far as Wahisietel was aware, no other Zamorakian Mahjarrat remained on Gielinor, or at least none had attended the last Ritual.

Enakhra was still the last surviving female, so her safety was all but guaranteed. Khazard was the youngest, and it wouldn’t take too much for the others to come around to sacrificing him next.

_ But what of the Ritual after that? _ He was thinking many Rituals in advance now, but there was no doubt in his mind every other member of his race had contemplated the exact same thing, many, many times.

_ Soon it would leave a Zarosian, _ Wahisietel thought bitterly. Akthanakos was no doubt the weakest of their tribe left; he would be a prime candidate. Azzanadra was too powerful to ever be sacrificed, and Zaros would never allow it. Sliske was too strong as well, but the rate he was going, he’d be lucky if he made it to next year, let alone the next Ritual.

With a heavy heart he realised that he would be sacrificed before long, and then, soon enough, there would come the extinction of the Mahjarrat. Zaros had promised to free them from their Rituals - it was one of the reasons the Mahjarrat left Icthlarin for the Empty Lord - but he had yet to fulfil his promise.

Because of this, they were a dying species.

Instead of getting lost in his depressing thoughts, Wahisietel removed the CommOrb from his nap sack and awaited his cue. By now, Jahaan and Sliske would be enclosing on Zemouregal’s fortress.

It wouldn’t be long now…

Once Wahisietel was in place, Sliske and Jahaan could teleport into the vicinity in the Shadow Realm. Oddly, the biting cold of Trollweiss Mountain didn’t hit as hard as Jahaan thought it would. Perhaps the Shadow Realm negated some of the material realm’s harsh climates, or perhaps the mystic armour had some bizarre temperature regulating powers? Jahaan didn’t know, and he didn’t frankly care, as long as he wasn’t getting hypothermia on this night.

“The entrance to the tunnels should be just up this ridge,” Sliske stated, hugging his robes into himself slightly as they trudged through the thick snow.

Thankfully there weren’t any trolls in sight, not that it would matter all that much, since they were hidden from view in the Shadow Realm. The footprints they left behind, on the other hand, were visible, and Jahaan chuckled at the thought of some confused and perturbed trolls scratching their skulls at the invisible men hiking through their valleys.

Troll Country was, in many ways, beautiful - a canvas of perfect snow, crisp and clean, coating the ground and all its surroundings. Evergreen trees complimented the white decoration on its thick leaves, lovingly taking on the descending snowflakes as they scattered down from the skies.

Maybe it was the kid in him, but Jahaan couldn’t help but want to go sledging.

Now was not the time.

At the top of the ridge, a cave entrance protruded out of the snow, albeit barely. It took a little bit of digging with his gloved hands - Jahaan’s that it, Sliske sat back as ‘moral support’ - before the cave in its entirety was visible, tall enough for the both of them to fit through.

Despite having a match at the ready, Jahaan wasn’t prepared for just how dark the tunnel was, forcing himself to stumble into the nearest wall and feel his way to a torch in order to bring some light to the place. Once the first torch was lit, the tunnel opened up in front of them both, a somewhat neatly dug pathway marked by unlit torches. Jahaan carried the first torch with him, lighting the others as he went.

“Well, Lamistard didn’t do a half-bad job here,” Sliske remarked, eyeing up the cavern as they rounded their first corner. “Apart from the whole, you know, ‘sense-of-direction’ thing.”

“What was he like, this Lamistard?” Jahaan inquired, lighting another torch as he did so.

Waving his hand dismissively, Sliske replied, “No-one of note or importance. Stood with Zamorak against Zaros, but even that didn’t end up doing him many favours. Guess he knew even the Zamorakians were going to sacrifice him soon enough, so he tried to circumvent the Ritual. It… didn’t go to plan. Not that I’m complaining.”

“He died so you could live,” Jahaan all-but mumbled. The words felt heavy and cloying in his throat.

Shrugging, Sliske continued, “The Mahjarrat are a kratocratically ruled tribe, and our Ritual is the epitome of that. I didn’t make the rules, and I shan’t complain when they work in my favour.”

“Don’t you ever think of him?” Jahaan pressed, somewhat more strongly than he should have. “That you sent him into an eternity of nothingness, an end to his entire existence, just so you could keep on living?”

Sliske stopped in his tracks, his eyes narrowing. “What are getting at, World Guardian?”

After lighting the nearest torch, Jahaan blew out the one he was holding and set it against the wall. A part of him knew he shouldn’t have said anything, but the question had been eating away at him for days, and something about Lamistard’s sorry story set him on edge. Turning to Sliske, he folded his arms over his chest, a stern and serious expression on his face. “Why do you want my soul, Sliske? Tell me the truth. Am I as disposable to you as Lamistard was to the Mahjarrat?”

Tilting his chin up, Sliske’s expression warped slightly. “So, that’s what this is about.”

“Just spit it out, Sliske,” Jahaan demanded. “I have to know - why me? Why my soul? And if you’d always planned to steal it, why toy with me all this time, acting like you care?”

“That is not your concern.”

“It’s my soul, it IS my fucking concern!” Jahaan snapped back. “You want an afterlife, don’t you? So you steal my soul and claim eternity for yourself, but I guess you don’t care where that leaves me, do you?”

“We made a deal,” Sliske countered through gritted teeth. “I help you kill Zemouregal, you give me your soul. A simple exchange.”

Sniffing a humourless laugh, Jahaan rolled his eyes and remarked, “This would make a good plot for one of your plays, Sliske.”

The pause that followed was thick and deadly, a chill in the air.

“Who told you about my plays?” Sliske demanded, low and fierce.

Straightening up his shoulders, Jahaan looked on in bafflement. He wasn’t expecting the comment to get such a strong reaction, and it knocked him for six. “Zamorak. So?”

“You weren’t supposed to know about those!” Sliske snapped, his voice like the crack of a whip.

Jahaan’s confusion warped into anger rapidly. “What, you embarrassed your  _ perfect reputation _ is tarnished?” he derided. “Gods, Azzanadra was right about your mood swings...”

In hindsight, this was the worst thing Jahaan could have said.

Yellow irises danced with flickers of flame, the corners of Sliske’s mouth twitching with a cruel sneer. His voice was deathly quiet, almost a whisper, as he said, “...You’ve been talking to Azzanadra about me?”

Gulping, Jahaan regretted ever opening his mouth, but he forced his fear aside - rage was so much easier to handle. “Yeah, so? I thought you of all people would enjoy being the topic of conversation.”

“And what did he tell you?” his sneer cracked his features, morphed into something otherworldly and venomous.

Jahaan saw no reason to lie at this point. Sliske would know. “He told me that your mood has always changed like the weather, and that if you came to threaten me again he would deal with you personally.”

This caused Sliske to erupt in a roar of laughter that was full of bile and animosity. “Oh, that’s  _ adorable _ ,” he spat, words dripping like acid from his fanged teeth.

Stalking closer to Jahaan, Sliske watched with sadistic glee as the young man forced himself not to flinch. “Well, where’s your precious Azzanadra now, hm?” he towered over Jahaan like a looming shadow, imposing and dangerous.

The claw shot out like a bow from an arrow, latching itself tightly around Jahaan’s throat, lifting him off the ground with ease. Instantly Jahaan’s hands pushed against the offending arm, trying to pry away Sliske’s firm grip, but it was locked onto him.

“Slis- _ ah! _ ” he gasped, breath hitching as he felt Sliske’s nails pierce his fragile skin, drawing blood that trickled crimson down his throat.

A brief glimpse through tear-filled eyes saw Sliske’s stoic expression, blank and deadly, the only life being the fire dancing behind his eyes. “Is this how you’d prefer me, World Guardian?” Sliske growled, flashing his teeth. “Is this easier to comprehend?”

It was a much tighter hold than the last time Jahaan found himself in this predicament; Sliske meant business, and he could pop his head like a grape if he wanted to. If Jahaan had the ability to form coherent thoughts that weren’t frantic and scattered, he would have realised this was the very first time he truly witnessed the gravitas of Sliske’s power. Gasping for air that would not come, Jahaan felt himself growing increasingly dizzy and lightheaded, the only thing keeping him stable being the immense pain of Sliske’s nails digging into his neck.

Though he felt his limbs becoming weaker and weaker, he desperately fought to reach for his dagger, but he was too slow, the movement too telegraphed. However, instead of retaliation, Jahaan felt himself released. He ragdolled to the ground, collapsing in a panting and spluttering heap. Hungrily he gasped in the warm air, scrambling over to put his back against the nearest wall.

Jahaan tried to gather his bearings, and once he managed to wipe away the tears from his eyes he realised he was no longer in the Shadow Realm - the air was too warm, the colours too vivid.

It took a long while for Jahaan to calm his breathing and ease his rapid heart rate, but once he did, he tried to look into the Shadow Realm, or at least open his mind up enough into the realm in order to sense if Sliske was still present. Thankfully, he wasn’t.

Rubbing the bruising on his neck, Jahaan could feel the swelling of welts that would turn an ugly shade of purple before long. Coupled with that, Jahaan’s fingers dripped crimson when he withdrew them, spots of dark red staining his skin. There wasn’t much blood, thankfully, and Jahaan didn’t think they’d scar. Still, one look at him and Wahisietel or Azzanadra would be able to deduce what had happened.

_ Sliske’s not ruining this for me, _ Jahaan vowed to himself, not wanting to back out despite them being a man short. But it was the lingering thought that the other Mahjarrat might withdraw that caused Jahaan not to inform them of the change in circumstance. They’d find out soon enough anyhow.

He wasn’t going to let Sliske get to him. Not now, when so much was at stake. This would be his only chance at Zemouregal for a long while. Still, the painful bruises at his neck served as a constant reminder of the enemy he’d just made.

Picking himself up off the ground, Jahaan stretched out the kinks in his neck and concentrated on shifting back into the Shadow Realm. Sliske or no Sliske, it was strategically the best way to sneak through Zemouregal’s fort.

Winding his way through the tunnels, Jahaan found himself getting turned around on more than one occasion - Lamistard had hardly created a labyrinth, but it also appeared as if not much planning had gone into the tunnelling beforehand. That’s probably why he ended up under the fort instead of where he’d intended, under the Ritual Marker.

Eventually though, Jahaan started to see the beginnings of civilisation in the form of stone paving, storage crates and more torches in close proximity to one another. Perhaps Zemouregal had attempted to make the most out of Lamistard’s labour and renovate some of the tunnels into a basement, but from the looks of it, the enormity of the task was too much and he’d long since given up. Still, it didn’t take too long to find a hatch that, when the corresponding chain was pulled, revealed a ladder which would take Jahaan up to the surface.

He’d made it inside Zemouregal’s fort undetected.

_ Now for the tricky part... _


	4. Dance of the Undead

Unfortunately, passing through solid objects such as doors and walls wasn’t possible in the Shadow Realm - you would still collide with anything in the ‘material world’ - therefore, opening creaking doors with stealth and finesse was still a real artform. Anyone could hear them, or see the door moving of its own accord, like some bored phantom out for a wander.

Jahaan edged the first door open with a hunched back and a wince that covered his entire face, flinching with every audible groan that the old door made. Alas, though not surprisingly, he didn’t find the teleport beacon beyond the first door. In fact, it took six doors until he finally hit the jackpot.

The study the teleport beacon was in was small and cluttered, books piled in an unorderly fashion next to drab bookshelves after Zemouregal invariably got bored of putting them back where they belonged. From the amount of dust each one had accumulated, Jahaan gathered he wasn’t much of an avid reader. This came as little surprise.

The teleport beacon itself didn’t exactly look like a magical marvel - it was a clunky steel construction, standing tall at about a foot off the desk. Inside it, however, would be an enchanted crystal, and that’s what Jahaan needed to get to. It took everything in his power to resist smashing it against the table. Instead, he used his fingernails to delicately pry the back of the casing off. Reaching inside, he gently nudged the gem loose and knocked it into his palm. The lights on the beacon instantly went dark, but fortunately, no alarms sounded. Jahaan prepared for a roar, backlash, the clatter of undead footsteps… but no. Perhaps Zemouregal hadn’t gotten around to wiring up his security systems properly either? Rather careless of him, or arrogant, depending on your outlook.

After placing the tiny shining blue crystal into his rucksack, Jahaan pulled out the CommOrb, suddenly struck with a bolt of poignant familiarity; he’d seen Sir Tiffy use one to summon Thaerisk to the Ritual Site after the last Mahjarrat Ritual. It was a weird thing to haunt him, and it cut deeper than imagined. With all his anger, planning, running here, there and everywhere, Jahaan had not allowed himself the chance to  _ grieve _ .

_ There’ll be time enough when Zemouregal’s dead, _ he vowed, shaking off the solemn cobwebs from around his mind and activating the CommOrb, tuning it to Azzanadra’s frequency.

Upon a ridge, as far away from the fortress as he could be without being out of spell range, Azzanadra tucked the CommOrb back in its pouch and began to concentrate, hard. A spell of that magnitude wasn’t a walk in the park, hence beacons were implemented to save mages working in shifts to protect homes and castles, such as they did back in the earliest days of magic. The spell’s complexity was no trouble, nor was the duration he’d have to hold it for, not for a powerful battlemage like Azzanadra. No, the hardest thing for him would be sitting on the sidelines while Sliske, Wahisietel and the World Guardian faced up against Zemouregal without him. A large part of him wanted to be there as that Zamorakian filth drew his final breath, after all.

His lips curved into a cruel smile as he muttered to himself. “Not long now, Zemouregal, before you join your wretched cousin in the void… it has been a long time coming...”

After ending the communication with Azzanadra, Jahaan then tuned into Wahisietel’s CommOrb, and within moments the Mahjarrat was standing in front of him.

However, Jahaan couldn’t even get a word out before Wahisietel, looking around him uneasily, queried, “Where is Sliske?”

“We had a...  _ disagreement _ ,” Jahaan groaned, clicking his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He wanted to brush past it, to focus on the task at hand and keep Sliske as far away from his mind as possible. In a time like this, he was a dangerous distraction. “It doesn’t matter right now - Zemouregal would have sensed you’re here, so we have to act fast.”

Unfortunately, Wahisietel wasn’t so easily brushed aside. Narrowing his stern eyes upon Jahaan, he demanded, “Your neck. Did Sliske do that to you?!”

Subconsciously rubbing the bruises around his throat, Jahaan averted his gaze. “Okay, so it was a little more than a disagreement. Here, I know we’re one man down, so if you want to back out, I understand, but I’m not going anywhere. Just make sure Azzanadra doesn’t relent that teleblock for a while.”

Shaking his head, Wahisietel grumbled something in a cursed tongue, a hiss-infused-growl that scraped against Jahaan’s ears. Whatever he said, Jahaan could surmise it wasn’t pleasant, and no doubt in regards to the absentee. Then, back in the familiar tongue, he asserted, “I gave you my word I would see this through, World Guardian. But as soon as this is over, you are to tell me  _ everything _ . Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” a ghost of a smile danced across Jahaan’s lips, his eyes determined as he said, “Let’s do this.”

Zemouregal was definitely in residence - Wahisietel could sense that much. Now came the task of finding just where in this gothic fortress he was hiding. Thankfully, it didn’t take long, for as soon as the pair rounded the next corner, they found exactly what they were looking for - a large chamber door, crimson-coloured ornaments warping their way across the metal in twisted and vulgar patterns. It looked like it led to a grand hall, somewhere defensible that Zemouregal would greet unwanted guests, somewhere he could look down on them with his haughty chin raised, somewhere large enough to summon armies of the undead.

Nodding to one another, Wahisietel and Jahaan heaved the creaking doors open.

When the pair made their way inside, it was clear Zemouregal had been expecting someone, positioned at the far end of the room in a subtly defensive stance.

Zemouregal must have sensed Wahisietel’s arrival, but from the look on his face when Jahaan emerged from behind the taller Mahjarrat, he was not expecting him.

Eyes flashing in shock, Zemouregal sneered, “So, back from the undead, World Guardian?”

“You should have finished me while you had the chance,” Jahaan growled, clenching tightly onto the hilts of his longswords.

After a sharp laugh, Zemouregal broke out into a cracked and haunting grin. “Perhaps, but the temptation to see you burn was too much,” his eyes scanned once again to Wahisietel, beside Jahaan, though he towered over the young man by a good height. “So, you brought this Zarosian scum along to act as a bodyguard - a wise move for a puny human, but I’m not going to entertain you maggots tonight.”

Raising his hand, he attempted a teleportation spell, and his face crumbled into panic when he realised it didn’t work.

With a satisfied smirk, Jahaan presented the teleblock crystal from out of a pocket on his rucksack. “This wasn’t important, was it?”

Spitting a harsh curse, Zemouregal roared, “SHARATHTEERK! TO ME!”

The gargoyle manifested beside his master. “I come at your call, my lord.”

“Summon reinforcements and dispatch of that Zarosian pest, but leave the human for me,” he ordered, and moments later a platoon of the undead appeared behind Sharatheerk, swaying dizzily from side to side like drunken sailors.

Because he was a  _ darling _ , Zemouragal wasn’t kind enough to allow Jahaan a path through his horde in order to face him mono e mono. Instead, Jahaan got the perfect opportunity to try out his new gear for real, and by the gods did he enjoy it. Charging right into the swarm with his swords held aloft, Jahaan unleashed fury.

Zombies don’t bleed, not requiring the circulatory system one requires blood for. Therefore, no crimson tail was left in the wake of Jahaan’s attacks. Having had the unfortunate pleasure of fighting many a man and beast in his time, Jahaan had become used to the sounds of death. From a man or a humanoid creature, it’s this sickening slurp, sort of like a squelch, that’s usually masked by a groan or shriek of agony. The same usually went for beasts, although they had the tendency to roar through their pain. Zombies, on the other hand, made no protest upon re-death - they just crumbled to the ground and accepted it. That meant that there was nothing to hide just how nauseating blade through flesh and bone sounded, and if it wasn’t for the chorus of moans coming from the sheer number of zombies, Jahaan might have let it affect him.

These types of zombies left a gooey greenish-black slime when cut into, and to be killed they must be decapitated. There were the older zombies, ones that have been dead for many years and decomposed into a near-skeletal form. These ones were absent of much fluid, tumbling to the ground with a low knock of bones and leaving a thin layer of dust upon the blade.

The main worry when fighting a zombie was their resiliency; you can cut all the limbs off one of these fuckers and he’ll still shuffle towards you by shifting his broken ribcage if he must. Their attacks were wild and reckless, but in a group they can overwhelm quickly. If one latched onto you, you’d be in for a struggle to shake off the bastard before his friends joined in the fun. Then, of course, there was the standard zombie bite. Fortunately, the cure for a bite was stocked in almost every pharmacy in Gielinor, and handed out to anyone that requires it free of charge. Jahaan’s armour covered him from neck to toe, so the only real risk came if he was swarmed and they pulled off a glove or boot, but as long as he got the antidote within seventy-two hours, he’d be fine.

Marvels of modern medicine.

And from how his swords cut through these undead cretins, they were marvels of modern smithing.

Jahaan swiped and swung from side to side, top to bottom, sometimes going straight for a decapitating blow, other times slicing inside the gut with one sword and stabbing through the brain with the other. As he fought on and on, he felt his dormant rage come back to him, but this time, he could control it, channel it into his precise attacks, carving a neat little path through the horde on his way to Zemouregal. Patient, making sure the Mahjarrat knew exactly what was coming for him.

In the shuffle, Wahisietel had become lost to the other side of the room, but the constant background noise of spells being channeled reassured Jahaan that he was still in the fight.

Jahaan didn’t even try and keep track of just how many zombies he’d cut down in the melee, but they seemed to keep coming, occasionally knocking into Jahaan’s armour before he had the chance to push them back and finish them off. Letting too many of them enclose on his personal space would be a real danger to him, so Jahaan fought carefully, not irrationally.

He had one chance to end this, and he wasn’t going to let some poor undead sap get the better of him.

In Wahisietel’s battle, he’d been using magic over melee, naturally. However, magic wasn’t always the best strategy against the undead because, as previously mentioned, only a strong and precise strike to the head will kill them. Magic came in blasts, in waves, in spells that could throw a horse back a good few paces, maybe slow them down even further for a while, but they’d keep on coming back. Therefore, Wahisietel had developed the strategy of knocking them backwards with a large blast of ice magic, then using smaller and more deliberate ice spells aimed at the head to pick them off one by one. For once, the Mahjarrat was at a disadvantage over the tiny human with the blades.

However, Sharathteerk was a different story altogether. The gargoyle, who had been waiting in the wings while the zombies were attacking Wahisietel, finally got bored of sitting around and decided to bring the fight to the Mahjarrat.

Big. Mistake.

All of these precise strikes were frustrating the heck out of Wahisietel, so when a large target came along without a specific body part for a weakness, Wahisietel let loose.

It wasn’t long before the gargoyle, so overwhelmed against the flurry of ice and smoke attacks from the Mahjarrat, succumbed to the intense barrage and shattered into fragments that exploded across the room. Jahaan had forgotten about Sharathteerk’s existence entirely until the remnants of his left thigh shot overhead and buried itself into a zombie’s skull. Looking past the swarm, Jahaan fought to see Zemouregal’s reaction, and he wasn’t disappointed; seeing Sharathteerk’s demise, Zemouregal’s face looked increasingly worried now. He summoned another platoon of zombies to fight in the gargoyle’s place, growing even more desperate.

_ Desperate people make mistakes, _ Jahaan noted, his own confidence growing.

Finally, after swinging his swords so much he wouldn’t have been surprised if one of his shoulders detached and whirled away like a Catherine Wheel, the swarm began to thin out, only leaving a handful of the undead between Jahaan and Zemouregal.

In one last flurry of blades connecting with undead flesh, the last of the zombies fell.

The adrenaline was suffocating, causing Jahaan’s erratic heartbeat to thrum loudly in his ears. Glaring into Zemouregal’s eyes, there was so much he wanted to say; violent curses, vows of revenge… but words didn’t matter now.

Jahaan charged head on towards Zemouregal. The Mahjarrat quickly summoned up a spell and thrust it towards Jahaan, but Jahaan dodged it, rolling out of the way and continuing onwards. The second blast, however, Jahaan didn’t see until it was too late to evade.

Wincing, Jahaan tensed up and braced himself for the blast of shadow magic to connect. When it did, he was knocked backwards a step, but he wasn’t even winded. Looking up at Zemouregal, the Mahjarrat was just as surprised as Jahaan that he was still standing.

Jahaan’s lip upturned into a defiant smirk, the grip on his swords tightening as he charged again.

Absorbing the next blast was akin to fighting against a torrent of wind, but it was manageable. Each time the magic connected, Jahaan’s armour would tingle even more, like the energy was being absorbed into the metal itself. Once he was close enough, Jahaan swung for Zemouregal’s head. The swipe missed wildly, Zemouregal evading with ease, drawing his own sword to parry the rebound.

_ Now,  _ Jahaan thought,  _ the fight can REALLY begin. _

Jahaan knew that as soon as he could goad Zemouregal into drawing his sword the fight would be a whole lot fairer. The two blades clashed, the sharp metallic ring resonating throughout the chamber. Jahaan had no idea what Zemouregal’s blade was made of; the metal was black, but it was far stronger than anything the black knights carried. Around the edges, smoke seeped from the blade, thin shadows coating the razor sharp metal. For a human the weapon would be held in two hands, if it could be lifted at all. Zemouregal, on the other hand, lifted it in one hand with the ease of someone lifting a quill pen.

Wasting little time, Zemouregal swung for a decapitating strike, but Jahaan rolled out of the way, the armour not hindering his movement or agility one bit. Like a second skin, it moulded to his body, moved with him, allowing him to gain distance from the blade before quickly dashing back in with a countering strike.

“Some fancy armour you have there,  _ World Guardian _ ,” Zemouregal snorted the title like it was an insult. “Much nicer than anything those Temple Knights wear.”

Zemouregal’s comment was as sharp as his sword, pointed and attacking. The rush of blood that rose through Jahaan’s throat made him falter, allowed Zemouregal the opening to slice his blade downwards. Jahaan dodged, but it was too close for comfort - he felt the metal whizz past his face, the cold rush of the breeze scratching his skin. If it had hit the mark, his head would have been sliced clean in half, like an apple being segmented.

Zemouregal’s strategy was an obvious one; Jahaan cursed himself for being swayed so easily. Keeping his breathing steady, he let the words wash over him, focusing everything he had on channeling out Zemouregal’s voice and putting everything into precise strikes.

“Did your dark-skinned friend make it out too?” Zemouregal jeered, all-too pleased with himself. “Such a shame I had to drug him. It would have been so much sweeter to hear him scream…”

_ Breathe in... breathe out… swing… parry… evade… lunge… breathe in… breathe out… _

“Would you like me to tell you that druid’s final words? Honestly, I’ve been laughing about them ever since… you know, he actually started crying! Such a pathetic human... ”

_ Breathe in… breath out… dodge... swing… parry… strike… breathe in… breathe out… _

“Your knight wasn’t any better - he was shaking like a leaf! Stuttering and mumbling about Saradomin, as if that blue ponce could help him!”

_ Breathe in… breath out… evade… swing… block… lunge… breathe in… breathe out... _

The constant back and forth was getting Zemouregal nowhere, and the lack of impact his words were having on the World Guardian really started to grate on him. Indignant, he pushed on harder, fought with an increased desperation and anger, but Jahaan could block everything he could swing at him.

Deducing his blade wasn’t making any progress, Zemouregal started to warm up his palms with shadow energy. His mystic attacks from earlier did no good, but if he could build up the power, attack dead on at such a close distance... 

Jahaan could see the spell being channeled, but figured he could swallow it and use Zemouregal’s recharging time to try and get a lucky shot in.

However, he didn’t realise Zemouregal was giving it everything he had.

Upon impact, Jahaan tumbled to the floor, swords clattering to the ground around him, the metallic ring echoing loud enough to catch the attention of Wahisietel.

“Jahaan!” he called out, moving to assist before he was tackled by a row of zombies who made the most of his distraction.

Groaning, Jahaan saw Zemouregal stalk over to him out of the corner of his eye, that smug smirk of his slashed across his face.

“You should have stayed dead, World Guardian,” he gloated, summoning a spell to his palms. “This time I’ll make sure it’s permanent.”

Before Zemouregal knew what hit him, his vision was clouded by a blinding smoke spell, causing him to cough and splutter as he gained distance from Jahaan.

Jahaan faltered slightly, so impressed that his smoke spell actually worked effectively that he forgot to capitalise. Luckily, Wahisietel had freed himself from the zombies and shot an ice blast from out of nowhere, careering straight into Zemouregal with a vicious impact. The Mahjarrat was knocked to the ground, and that’s when Jahaan charged, scooping up one of his swords and bolting forwards.

He didn’t waste time to gloat, or be smug, or allow Zemouregal even a second to register what was happening to him.

The blade plunged easily into the Mahjarrat’s neck, sliding its way in like Jahaan was making the first carve into a tender chicken roast, but even more satisfying than the thought of a banquette ever could be. Gagging, hoarse rasps of breath were fought for, but Zemouregal never achieved them. Jahaan revelled in the wide-eyed terror glistening in his eyes, like the sockets were going to open up and let the eyeballs escape free. With teeth clenched, Jahaan took a deep, steadying breath, and slowly began to twist the blade inside his flesh, opening up a wound that started to seep ink-like fluid onto the ground below. He relished every second, watching the life fade from Zemouregal’s eyes, the breath from his lungs, the blood from his veins.

Zemouregal was dead before the tip of the blade was removed from his neck.

As soon as Zemouregal was gone, the magic keeping the zombies animated suddenly ceased to be, and they all collapsed in piles of bones of the floor. Wahisietel watched them shatter, dust rising in clouds from their old corpses.

The adrenaline that had held Jahaan up those last few moments vanished as quickly as the zombies, and he collapsed to the ground, clutching balled up fists to his chest. He tried to prop himself up, instead sliding back to the floor, a hoarse groan forcing its way out as his clenched teeth tried to verbalise the pain.

“Jahaan!” Wahisietel called out, seeing the man fall to the ground. He rushed over, kneeling by his side.

“I’m okay,” Jahaan winced. The injury wasn’t anything too serious, just agonising. The severe pain in his chest confirmed his suspicions - he’d cracked a rib, if not multiple. Jahaan had cracked and even broken ribs before, several times too many in fact. Despite being familiar with the feeling, one never gets used to it. Breathing suddenly became torturous, but he forced deep breaths from himself, knowing this was necessary to protect his lungs. His armour would have to go, as would his weaponry, since their heaviness would worsen the injury. Right now though, he needed to get somewhere to recuperate that wasn’t filled with zombie dust and dead Mahjarrat. He didn’t even get a chance to relish in the victory thanks to the blinding pain in his chest.

“Contact Azzanadra,” Jahaan tried to make his way to his feet, but seeing as he was struggling, Wahisietel practically lifted him up. “Let’s leave this place. Fuck, I need some pain relievers…”


	5. Unavoidable Conflict

Jahaan landed back at the temple delicately, thanks to Wahisietel basically carrying him during the teleport. Removing his armour, Jahaan sat back against the oak frame of his bed’s headrest while Azzanadra fetched something to ease the pain. The potion was bitter; sweet with a twinge of burnt apples was the only way he could describe it. Despite that, it served its purpose, helping to numb the aching of his ribs.

“That armour is the only reason you’re still breathing, World Guardian,” Wahisietel noted, motioning to the dented elder rune platebody resting against the wall. “It is somewhat fortunate Zemouregal destroyed your first set, is it not?”

There was a twinge of a smile of the Mahjarrat’s face, and Jahaan caught the meaning. Despite the pain of it, Jahaan couldn't help but laugh at the irony. By trying to kill Jahaan, Zemouregal destroyed his armour. Jahaan’s new set of armour saved his life against Zemouregal.

How bitterly poetic.

Closing his eyes, Jahaan let the drowsy side effects of the potion consume him, mumbling before he fell under, “I’ll buff that out in the morning…”

It wasn’t for quite a few mornings that Jahaan had the upper body strength to even raise his arms above his head, let alone take his armour to an anvil. Damaged ribs were a time-taker to heal - there was nothing he could do to speed up the process, just rest in the quarters of his Mahjarrat ally. As promised, he told Wahisietel of the troubling encounter with Sliske, and in return learned a whole new set of Freneskaen curse words.

But at least in the comfort of the temple, Jahaan felt safe. His mind, however, would never let him rest.

Just like after Lucien’s death, Jahaan expected a miracle that didn’t come to pass. He expected to feel relief, joy,  _ anything _ . He expected the weight off his chest to be lifted, but the pain was still there, predominantly in the form of a cracked rib.

He didn’t expect to still feel so hollow.

The rage had subsided at least, but that had ebbed away in the battle - a miracle in its own right, for Jahaan couldn’t remember the last time he’d effectively controlled his temper like that. The mental image of the sword slicing into Zemouregal’s throat put Jahaan to sleep every night, but he never slumbered for long, awoken either by the aching of his ribs or one of the many delightful recurring nightmares he’d been suffering from since the fire.

They were all there, friends and enemies alike. Ozan, Zamorak, Icthlarin, Zemouregal, Sir Tiffy, Cyrisus… their corpses cold and decaying, only to be dragged into reanimation by wires on their limbs, twisting and contorting their lifeless bodies against their will. Dancing marionettes, puppets on strings, shuffling to the rhythm of a haunting cackle, a gloved hand, a masked face.

Jahaan knew that voice all too well; he could only watch in horror as the familiar puppeteer orchestrated his plays, the world at his mercy.

After just under a week had passed, Jahaan felt like he’d graduated from bedrest and decided to leave Azzanadra in peace, still feeling bad that the Mahjarrat had acted as host and carer to a broken guest for far too long. Now that he was well enough to travel, albeit with the assistance of a cane, Jahaan wanted to check up on Ozan’s progress in the Wizards’ Tower. In one last favour he asked Azzanadra to teleport him to Draynor. There, Jahaan first utilised the bank to transport his armour to safe storage. His ribs still couldn’t quite take the brunt of any constricting armour, despite how light and nimble the elder rune set was.

Then, it was just a short walk across the bridge to the Wizards’ Tower, somewhere Jahaan was glad to be back at under less dire circumstances than before.

The Wizards’ Tower is a Saradominist institute for magic and runecrafting in Misthalin, housed in an immense structure located on a small island south of Draynor. It is one of the tallest buildings on Gielinor, rivalling the greatest cities’ castles, but coming short of the Tower of Voices in Prifddinas. It is connected to the mainland by an exquisite bridge, and the tower’s elaborate architecture and ornaments make it a beacon of human accomplishment in the Fifth Age. The tower has many facilities, including two libraries, an armillary, a telescope, offices and workrooms. In addition, the tower houses several secrets, such as the teleportation spell to the Rune Essence mine, which Zamorakian organisations such as the Zamorakian Magical Institute were attempting to steal. The Wizards' Tower was also known for having created most spells currently used today, as well as many magical theses and theorems. The tower was run by Archmage Sedridor, a very enthusiastic and bubbly old chap who happily welcomed visitors into the tower and would chat their ears off about its history.

As he searched for a certain textbook on the floating shelves, the archmage saw Jahaan in his peripheral vision, who was being signed in by Valina, the entrance clerk.

“Jahaan, Jahaan come in!” Archmage Sedridor greeted him, ushering him inside. “We were beginning to worry about you, you seemed so frantic last time, son. It was quite troubling.”

“It was a stressful time,” Jahaan replied, an understatement that Archmage Sedridor accepted with a deepening frown.

“Yes, yes poor Ozan… we’ve done all we can for him, I assure you. We treated his burns and prevented infection, but there’s still some lasting damage, you see. I’m afraid his skin will never truly heal.”

Jahaan winced. He knew Ozan’s narcissism well, reflected in his reply, “Let me guess, he’s taking the damage to his face the worst, right?”

Sniffing a humourless laugh, Sedridor confirmed, “He does mention it often.”

The two made it to the medical bay in good time; the door was ajar. Inside, Jahaan could hear the pleasant chattering between Ozan and Ariane, and he held back for a while. Archmage Sedridor left to attend to other business, leaving Jahaan to rest against a neighbouring pillar. He couldn’t make out too much from what was said, but noted how Ozan’s usual full-bodied laugh was weaker now, punctuated by tight coughs. The sound made Jahaan’s throat close up.

Finally, he realised he couldn’t hold it off any longer and gently pushed the door open, its ear-piercing creak signalling his arrival.

Once the two locked eyes, Ariane’s face grew dark, her expression cold. She feigned a reassuring smile to Ozan, muttered a few words - seemingly making her excuses to leave - and gathered up Coal, who was chewing on the bed linen. She edged past Jahaan at the door without sending him another glance. Even Ozan couldn’t spin it, offering nothing but a sympathetic smile and a light shrug. He was propped up against the head of the bed, still in nightwear, with bandages taping his arms and half of his face. He looked like an incomplete mummy, something which Jahaan didn’t decide to voice, just in case Ozan’s sense of humour wasn’t fully recovered.

Luckily, Ozan broke the tension, pointing to his own face and saying, “Fenkenstrain’s suing me for ripping off his creation.”

It wasn’t that funny, but Jahaan laughed. Like, properly laughed, doubling over with tears in his eyes. He was just so…  _ relieved _ . The relief was such that it felt as if a phantom had left his soul in a jolt, similar to how he felt after Zaros disembarked his body, though without the unwelcomed loss of consciousness that followed.

Awkwardly, Jahaan sat down on the edge of Ozan’s bed. He really didn’t know where to start - an apology, a check on his health, on his spirits, an explanation… there was too much he needed to cover. So, he allowed Ozan to make the first move.

“I haven’t seen you for a while,” Ozan mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. He was clearly sensing the awkwardness too. “Was getting worried, y’know… Ariane told me what happened.”

Meeting Jahaan’s eyes, he finally asked, “Did you get him? That Mahjarrat guy?”

“Zemouregal? Yeah, he’s dead,” Jahaan replied with a shaky breath.

“You shouldn’t have gone after him. You could have gotten yourself killed.”

With a humourless chuckle, Jahaan said, “Ozan, have you ever known me to let anything go? I had to. I had to… to try and make it right. Ozan, I’m so sorry. I’m so-”

“Let me stop you right there,” Ozan interejected, a calming hand reaching out to Jahaan. “You have nothing to apologise for, okay? You never could have guessed what was gonna happen.”

Laughing softly, Ozan added, “Heck, with all the enemies I’ve made over the years, our roles could have easily been reversed.”

“But can you honestly tell me that, if the roles were reversed, you wouldn’t feel guilty?”

Ozan remained quiet, accepting this.

After a long pause, Ozan lightly nudged Jahaan on the arm, tried to raise his voice a tad as he said, “Damn, man. It’s like a morgue in here. I haven’t died or anything!”

Unfortunately, the act preceded a bout of coughs, Ozan shrugging Jahaan off as he reached over to pat his back. “I’m fine, Jahaan. The coughing thing’s gonna go in time they say. It doesn’t hurt that much. My skin, on the other hand…” Ozan’s frown deepened into a comical pout. “The fire’s done a number on my pretty-boy good looks…”

Motioning to his own fire-scarred face, Jahaan dryly remarked, “Well, at least we match now.”

Sniffing a chuckle, Ozan said, “We could start a double act called ‘How Not To Play With Fire’. I’m sure Ariane would lend us some runes.”

Jahaan winced. “Ah yes, Ariane.”

“She’s taking it a lot worse than I am. I think it’s best if you stay out of her eye-line for a while,” Ozan winked, his face contorting slightly from what used to be such a simple action.

Trying to hide the sorrow in his features, Jahaan forced himself to smirk as he replied, “Good idea.”

Noticing how Ozan’s eyes were starting to close, Jahaan realised this little catch-up had probably exhausted the poor fellow who should be conserving what little energy he had at this point. So, Jahaan helped him lie back down on the bed, saying he’d visit again soon. Knowing Ariane’s stance on things, Jahaan wasn’t sure when that would be.

“Bring booze next time,” Ozan drearily called out before turning over and burying himself in the comfy pillow.

His heart heavy, Jahaan watched Ozan’s steady breathing for a few moments. It was serene - just the simple action of seeing his best friend in a peaceful sleep after all he’d been through was reassuring.

Quietly, he made his way out of the chamber, careful not to move the door for fear the creaking would startle Ozan awake.

When he turned around, Ariane was greeting him with a stern face, her arms folded over her chest. Seeing her seemingly manifest out of nowhere surprised Jahaan, causing him to jump slightly.

“How long have you been there?” Jahaan hissed, catching his breath.

Ariane didn’t answer, instead motioning for Jahaan to follow. Leading him into a small study, Ariane closed the door behind them, and from the look on her face, Jahaan knew he was in for a rough time.

“So you killed him, then? This Mahjarrat?” it sounded more like an accusation than a mere question.

Raising his chin, Jahaan confirmed, “Yes, I did.”

Ariane did not seem impressed, her eyes boring holes through the man.

“Look, what is your problem with me?” Jahaan hissed, advancing on Ariane, who didn’t step back. “I know you think I’m a bad influence on Ozan, but the man’s no monk. What matters is that we both care deeply for him, you and I. I’d rather die than let anything happen to him, and I’m pretty sure you know that already. So tell me, please, what have I done to piss you off so greatly?”

“Other than nearly letting Ozan get burned alive?”

“You hated me before that,” Jahaan countered. “So come on. Did Ozan tell you about how I grew up? Is it the people I’ve killed? What?”

“You really want to know?” Ariane snapped, storming forward with such force it made Jahaan back up on instinct. “It’s your attitude, Jahaan. Your callousness, your naivety, your self-centred view on everything. Ever since you became the Word Guardian it’s only gotten worse. The world is falling apart and I don’t think you know, let alone care. Do you ever read the newspapers, Jahaan?”

Wary of where this was going, Jahaan hesitantly answered, “I hear bits and pieces…”

It became apparent rather quickly that Jahaan did not hear enough; Ariane filled him in on all the  _ delightful _ things he'd missed on his travels, such as the dangerous antics of the Godless.

The Godless are a faction of those opposed to deities being on Gielinor, similar in many ways to the Guthixian views, but with one key difference.

They were violent.

Guthixians would preach about how Guthix banished the gods from Gielinor to protect the world from them. They relied on churches, emissaries and sermons to convey their message to the general populous. The Godless, on the other hand, took it upon themselves to wage war against every god and their followers. They believed no-one should worship a deity, that we were the masters of our own destiny and do not need to follow behind a divine being in order to have worth in our lives.

Before the gods returned to Gielinor and the Sixth Age commenced, the Godless were an incredibly small faction, for almost everyone on Gielinor stood behind a banner of some sort. Now that the gods had returned and they were starting to cause a ruckus, more people were becoming sympathetic to their cause.

The Battle of Lumbridge was their single greatest recruiting tool since their inception.

The Godless would attack and deface shrines during the night, would tear apart churches and harass emissaries. They were lawless, worked underground and distributed propaganda wherever they could.

However, their petty destruction was nothing compared to what the former Bandosians had caused.

After Bandos’ defeat, the vast majority of his followers had defected to the avian deity, erecting shrines and even taking to books and  _ studying  _ the ways of Armadyl. They were helped with the whole ‘learning-to-read-thing’ by emissaries of Armadyl, who set up roaming caravans to teach the former Bandosian loyalists the preachings of their new god.

Sounds great, doesn’t it? Well, old habits die hard, and it would take a lot more than a few commandments and pretty shrines to undo centuries of Bandosian indoctrination. Thus, instead of gradually trying to convert the remaining Bandoanian loyalists - as the emissaries said they should - they went out and systematically hunted them all down.

It was convert or die; any hesitation on the former signed your death sentence.

Goblin and ogre settlements especially were bloodbaths, sometimes even spilling into nearby human settlements, and people often got caught in the crossfire.

The Dorgeshuun, a peaceful tribe of hunter-gatherer goblins that had existed beneath the surface of southern Misthalin, were brought to the brink of extinction. The Dorgeshuun, largely non-religious, did not partake in the battle against Armadyl, and had defied Bandos for years by refusing to submit to his warlike ways. Bandos had planned to wipe them out as soon as he defeated Armadyl, and resolved to make such a day a national holiday. After Bandos’ death, the remaining Bandosian loyalists looked for a scapegoat, someone to blame for their god’s demise, and they settled upon the Dorgeshuun.

They were exterminated before the ex-Bandosian Armadyleans could arrive, who had similar plans for their slaughter.

It wasn’t just converted Bandosians that Armadyl had amassed into his following; more and more humans, particularly Saradominists, were growing increasingly interested in the avian deity’s philosophy. Saradominism and Armadylean beliefs overlapped quite a lot, making the two religions close allies back in the God Wars of old. Now though, more people were getting exposed to Armadylean teachings, and after the way Saradomin helped to tear apart Lumbridge, those same people were becoming open to the idea of supporting a new deity.

This did not go down well with Saradomin; tensions were rising between the two factions, but it had yet to come to a head.

And then came the Zamorakian invasion of Ardougne.

Hazeel and Khazard, along with Zamorakian armies, had marched into Ardougne only last week, taking control of the territory and pushing the warring gnomes - who were already locked in battle with the Khazard troops - out within days. The combined might of the Mahjarrat and their forces was too much for the gnomes alone to handle. Fortunately, Saradominist soldiers had come to the aid of the city, and now a joint Saradominist-Guthixian alliance was fighting to take back Ardougne.

If the Battle of Lumbridge was the first major battle of the Third God Wars, this would be the second. The Armadyl/Bandos scuffle was on a different level - more isolated and less destructive. This time, they’re were battling through the streets of the largest city in the Kingdom of Kandarin.

The Saradominist effort to halt Zamorakian advances in the Kandarin Kingdom forced Saradomin to delay his plans for Morytania, or so rumour has it. It was mere whisperings at this stage, but it was told that Saradomin planned to reignite his desired conquest of Morytania, taking it out of the hands of the Zamorakians (Lord Drakan especially) and liberating the people of Meiyerditch, returning it to its former glory of the Hallowland.

Thanks to two asshole Mahjarrat, that had to be put on hold.

The God Wars were beginning again; at the rate things were going, it wouldn’t be long before an all-out conflict arose.

“You triggered this, Jahaan,” Ariane finished, gravely. “I know it was you who Sliske managed to trick into letting him into Guthix's chamber. Now, the very Mahjarrat that deceived you, the very Mahjarrat you're somehow so chummy with, is the one that’s allowed the world to be torn apart, and instead of trying to stop him, you locked yourself in petty revenge. You're the WORLD GUARDIAN Jahaan - it's time you started acting like one.”

Moving towards the door, Ariane peered briefly over her shoulder with darkness in her eyes. “Actions have consequences, Jahaan. Start thinking of the bigger picture.”

**Author's Note:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.


End file.
